Lead us not
by A. X. Zanier
Summary: A new threat is on the horizon and the Agency is forced to turn to an unexpected source for help. Story Status: COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Title: _Lead us not..._

Author: A. X. Zanier

Copyright: October 15, 2004, completed May 1, 2005

Status: Complete

Rating: C, FRT-13, T (warnings: language, violence)

Fandom: _The Invisible Man_

Series: _Pater Noster_ Arc

Pairing: Bobby/Claire

Sequel: post-_Items of Lesser Concern _

Summary: A new threat is on the horizon and the Agency is forced to turn to an unexpected source for help.

Spoilers: Probably, does it really matter after three years?

Disclaimer: a) The characters and basic story ideas of _The Invisible Man_ are the property of others including, but not limited to Matt Greenberg, Studios USA, Stu Segall Productions and NBC Universal. Any additional characters or story ideas are mine. I make no money from this intellectual exercise. b) This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any opinions or views expressed herein do not reflect those of the author and are used for story-telling purposes only.

Notes: I wrote several shorts that ended with Bobby finally jumping off the company pier (blame Suz) with Claire, which caused a whole slew of brand new plot bunnies to sit up and whine piteously at me. This is the result. The final episode of the show aired Feb. 1st, 2002; this story takes place in late April of the same year.

Music: _Walls_ by Yes (Darien),_ Better Than This_ by Copper Sails (Bobby),_ Try_ by Nelly Furtado (Fallon), _Everything_ by Alanis Morissette (Claire). For the complete song list just drop me an email.

Many thanks to my Betas, Krys and Suz, without whom this would be little more than drek and dren.

-----

Lead us not...

-----

_"Spare minutes are the Gold-dust of time; the portions of life most fruitful in good and evil; the gaps through which temptations enter." _

_When I was a thief life was pretty simple, steal a few baubles now and then, don't get caught and avoid a vacation in a six by six cell with a roommate that was just as likely to screw me over as screw me. Now I work for the Agency, the welfare child of the government intelligence biz. Staying out of prison is easy, staying alive... is a bit more challenging. Okay, so it wasn't too bad, 'specially once that little madness problem had been dealt with. Trouble was I'd made a promise to myself, to Kevin, that I'd deal with the bastard that had killed him, and yet I'd watched him slip through my fingers time and time again. _

_Yeah, I can still be tempted, but these days it ain't likely to be by gold._

-----

"We done?" Darien peeked under the cotton ball to see if he'd stopped bleeding yet. At least the weekly exam and blood draw had become a monthly event; with just the Monday morning finger pokes to remind him that he was indeed still the Agency's number one lab rat. He adjusted his watchband as a pretext to glance at the snake tattoo coiled on the inside of his wrist. Green was color he had learned to enjoy seeing during the first couple of years here, now it was his continued assurance that he was not likely to need to invest in Visine for a bad case of the red-eye anytime in the near future.

The fact that his salvation had come from his personal nemesis still grated, ached like a tooth gone rotten in the center. The self-same bastard who'd had a serious hand in ruining Darien's life had also been the one to save it, an irony that was not lost upon him.

"Just about." Claire returned to his side, the vials of blood she had drawn having vanished into the depths of the Keep. She was now holding nothing more innocuous than a clipboard and pen while smiling brightly at him, like a reward for being such a good boy and sitting still while she stuck him with sharp pointy things.

Darien rolled his eyes. "Not the questionnaire?"

"Yes, the questionnaire," his blonde doctor retorted. "I told you before that if you won't voluntarily tell me we'd have to do it this way."

"Can't we just do it the old fashioned way and you find out through rumors in some dark alley?" One of her toes tapped impatiently on the concrete floor, her smile suddenly a lot less pleasant. Darien groaned to himself, knowing he'd been anything but a Chatty Cathy around Claire lately. "Oh, all right. Just hurry it up, Hobbes seemed antsy this morning." He smirked. "You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

Claire's cheeks tinged over to pink. "Perhaps," she admitted, "but you still have to answer the questions."

Darien relaxed back the chair and waited for her to begin. He'd known trying to distract her with her relationship with Bobby wasn't going to work, but he still got a kick out of making her blush.

For the next 10 minutes, Claire ran through the standard list: was he taking his supplements, sleeping well, eating a balanced diet, the usual suspects. The very last one, however, was a new addition.

"Last time you had sexual intercourse."

"Claire," Darien squawked, shocked out of his complacent state of mind.

"A lady named Claire, eh? A bit odd, possibly a sign of an Oedipal-like complex, but does not actually answer the question." Claire obviously hadn't let his outburst faze her the least little bit.

"Claire," Darien repeated at a low growl, not in the mood to have _this_ conversation.

"Yes, we have previously established her name is 'Claire.' Do you need me to repeat the question?" The gaze she leveled at him was one totally lacking in amusement.

Darien grit his teeth and bit out, "Four months."

Claire sighed and lowered the clipboard without writing down his answer. "For goodness sake, Darien, I didn't badger the Official into allowing you an outside liaison for nothing."

Darien slid off the chair and began to pace the confines of the lab, much like a jungle cat in a far too small cage. "I'm still not sure why you did."

"Because it is my job to see to it you are healthy, and as an adult male that includes sexual release." She kept to the clinical coolness, not because she didn't care, but in hopes of lessening the embarrassment this topic was sure to create for him. And it did work, but only to a point.

"Claire, _release_ isn't a problem," he sniped, leveling a glare at her in challenge.

"And _that _is not what I meant," she snarked right back. "You deserve some happiness in your life, Darien. So, for god's sake, go out and find a girl, fall in love and be happy."

"Jeeze, Claire, just 'cause you and Bobby are making with the googly-eyes don't mean everyone else has to. Or wants to." Darien knew his tone was harsh, but it was _his_ life. He didn't need another intervention. The last one, courtesy his brother, had just worked out _so well_.

Her tone softened. "Darien, sweetheart, can you at least explain _why_ you don't want to... 'make with the googly eyes'?"

That phrase, with her hoity-toity British accent caught him off guard, and made him realize she was really worried about him. "Keep, I'm fine with the way things are."

"Now, _that_ I know is a lie." She moved to his side and encouraged him to sit on her lab chair; this perforce put him lower than her so he had to look up to meet her blue eyes. "It is obvious to everyone you are... lonely. And don't you even try to argue," Claire ordered just as he was about to. "Even Alex has commented on it."

"Oh Christ, is that why she's been dragging me to all those parties? You trying to fix me up with her?" Darien ran a hand through his hair feeling both embarrassed and angry.

"Fix you up? No." Claire paced a few steps away and set down the clipboard on her desk. "I did suggest she ask you to join her, as company..."

"Claire, god damn it..."

"And she agreed it was a good idea," Claire finished, nearly shouting over his outcry. "Are those social events so awful?"

Darien shook his head. "Nah, kinda fun, actually. She tells me who has blackmail on who and I tell her who's wearing the fake jewelry." It was interesting to see the Monroe Doctrine on the spy biz, a completely different style from Hobbes', yet just as effective. He was learning a lot and, though he'd never admit it, he enjoyed Alex's company - on a purely platonic level, that is. It had been made eminently clear to Darien that Alex had no interest in any type of long-term relationship at this time. Oh, she had not said anything directly to him, but her obvious conquest of the males in that high-society circle made it plain she played the field and played it well, regardless of marital status. She got what she wanted; be it information or simple sweat-drenched sex, and then moved on.

Claire was right about one thing, since she and Hobbes had started spending more off time together, Darien had been left at loose ends more often than not. On any given evening he could most likely be found moodily watching Spike TV and drinking beer in his one room studio apartment.

"Claire, what'm I s'posed to do? Hit the clubs and start picking up hot chicks for sex?"

She huffed at him. "No, but you could, at least, look at what's around you. Most relationships start through random encounters. You just have to be willing to take the chance."

Darien closed his eyes and shook his head. "Not worth the risk. I don't want to see anyone else get hurt 'cause of me or the gland."

"Darien G. Fawkes, that is a load of crap and you know it." Darien stared at her in shock. "You can't argue that it was worth the risk for Bobby and then say it's not for yourself."

Darien opened his mouth to snap out a reply, but paused to think it through as she did have a point. "Different sitch, Keepy. You and Hobbes both work here. You're talking me and a civilian."

"It didn't stop you when you were interested in Kate Easton," Claire challenged.

"But she knew about me... the Quicksilver. 'Sides, she ended up marrying someone else." Darien tipped his head down to stare forlornly at the floor between the scuffed toes of his shoes.

"Darien, is that you are afraid that someone you meet might get hurt, or that _you_ will?"

Darien was saved the need of answering by the opening of the Keep door with its _Star Trek_ rip-off sound. Hobbes strode briskly in, all swagger and business. "You done, Fawkes? We got a meeting to make."

Darien looked over at Claire who sighed. "Yes, you can go."

Darien didn't say a word, knowing that just one might cause Claire to change her mind, and made good his escape.

-----

The ugly tan Econoline van weaved through the morning traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway, causing other drivers to honk and dodge out of the way or risk being run down. After skating through a light just as it turned red, Hobbes realized he was doing it again, focusing so closely on the _now_ that he blocked out all awareness of everything else. For the last several minutes, to him, the road had been empty, just Golda and the asphalt warming in the sun rumbling beneath the wheels. All the morning traffic had vanished, of no importance compared to the goal of making it to the meeting on time.

He slowly released his grip on the steering wheel and checked the watch adorning his wrist - the gold Rolex his partner had swiped a few months back off the body of a local mob boss. During the funeral, no less. Hobbes chuckled softly. Had to admit, a Quicksilver Mad Fawkes was someone you didn't want to mess with. Though, based on the sounds of irritation coming from the passenger seat, Fawkes was in a similar mood right now. Hobbes' creative driving tended to do that even on a good day, and _good_ days had been few and far between as of late.

In hopes of preventing a grouch session, Hobbes opened up the conversation with, "So, how'd it go in the Keep this morning?"

He really was curious. He might be sleeping with Claire, but that didn't mean she kept him informed on every aspect of her job; even if a big part of that job was his partner. He most certainly didn't _expect _her to, it was just part of the spook biz. Need to know, and all that. What Claire felt he needed to know, she told him and vice versa.

Darien shrugged and adjusted the seatbelt that had ended up askew on his lanky body during the last high-G turn. "It went."

"Oh," Hobbes said, fully realizing that the answer hadn't been all that informative. "So, no problems? Everything running up to spec?" he pressed. He'd been worried about Darien for a while now. Ever since the relationship thing with Claire had changed. It kind of left Fawkes in the unenviable position of fifth wheel, which, while he'd _said_ it didn't, plainly bugged the hell out of him. It often left Darien home twiddling his thumbs instead of out hell-raising with Bobby. Trouble was that even though he could see the problem he couldn't figure out how to fix it. He was still too swept up in the high of having the Keep all to himself to break away even the slightest bit. When the newness wore off, then maybe. Though, selfishly, Bobby hoped that feeling of newness never went away.

Darien muttered something derogatory under his breath. "She has to run the tests first, Hobbes. Where we going anyway?"

Bobby wanted to ignore the question, wanted to know if Claire had reminded Darien that he should be out tomcatting around like any good red-blooded horny American male, but couldn't see how to do so in a way that would get an answer instead of another view of that wall Fawkes had been hiding behind as of late. "Over near Old Town to meet this guy, goes by the name of Fall."

"A guy named Fall?" Darien snorted in amusement. "_The Fall Guy_? We're going to meet Lee Majors?"

_'Lee Majors? What the...'_ "No, Fawkes, I said _Fall_. A guy _named_ Fall, not the _Six Million Dollar Man_." Hobbes hated when Fawkes took sudden left turns like this. The verbal whiplash nearly was painful as what he managed with a single sharp right in the van.

"After that, Hobbes."

Hobbes whipped his head about, thinking he'd missed the turn off, and saw the smirk upturning the corner of Fawkes' mouth. Proof positive Bobby was going end up with a headache thanks to his partner's convoluted reasoning. "After what?"

Darien straightened in his seat and met Hobbes' eyes. "After the bionic gig he did a show where he was a stunt man, called _The Fall Guy_. Doug Barr and Heather Thomas were in it too."

Hobbes let the response trickle in one drop at a time until it finally made sense. "Oh... Oh! That explains Mik's weirder comments. He has a thing for the chick, what'd you say her name was?"

"Heather. Thomas," Darien answered. "Mik?" He slid back down into the seat, making Hobbes wonder, and not for the first time, if Fawkes actually had a backbone in there.

"Mikail Dobrefsky. Former KGB," Hobbes explained. "Headed for greener pastures when his position was... downsized during the breakup of the Soviet Union."

"Friend of Yuri's, I take it?" Darien's tone was filled with, justified, suspicion.

"No relation. Only known him a few months, but he's been useful and reliable." Hobbes could tell that wasn't enough to convince Fawkes, not after what Yuri had done. "He gave us the lead on the Quesada case last month." That seemed to help, if only marginally. "Plus he set up this meet for us. Said if anyone had the info, it was him."

Darien was silent, obviously mulling his response. "Not a ringing endorsement, but we're pretty much out of options here."

"You ain't kidding there, pal. The intel that's trickling in is all bad. Whatever is going down is gonna be big and nasty. And _no one_ has any info of use. It's frickin' weird." Hobbes turned off Juan Street and onto a smaller side street populated with rows of tightly packed buildings, all two or three stories high and home to variety of shops and businesses. Those upper stories were mostly apartments from the look of things. One generally didn't hang their lingerie outside their office window. Well, except for Minnie's Bloomers, apparently, which had mannequins adorned with similar scraps of cloth right in the front display windows for all the world to see. Hobbes forced himself to _not_ do a double-take at the bright red garters and brassier that would look... stunning on the seemingly staid and quiet Keeper. He'd have to come back later, without Fawkes and his inevitable needling, and see about maybe purchasing a set.

Hobbes scanned the numbers adorning the doors, looking for 236, which he spotted a moment later. He drove past it and pulled into the first available parking space noting, with a dour expression, the meter beside it. He fished under the seat for a couple seconds before coming up with his prize. It appeared to be nothing more than a red cotton sack that had been turned a dull maroon by the years of dirt encrusted into its fibers. He hopped out of the van, crossed in front, giving the hood a fond pat as he did so and onto the sidewalk where he slipped the bag over the parking meter. Written across the side were the words "Out of Order."

Darien snickered. "And you say the 'Fish is cheap. What? You can't spring for two quarters?"

"Eberts will only reimburse for parking if I got a receipt." Hobbes waved at the parking meter. "You see any paper coming outta that thing?"

Darien shook his head, still chuckling softly. "This the place?" They were standing in front of a dress shop; the mannequins decked out in the summer's finest in skimpy evening wear.

"This way." Hobbes headed up the street towards their target. The building was one of the three story models and had about twice as much frontage as the others nearby. The windows were frosted over, no wares displayed to encourage potential customers strolling casually by to wander in and possibly do more than just window shop. The entrance was an ornate pair of double doors, wood over steel, with glass insets, one of which contained the business name, _the fourth monkey_, all in lower case letters, and no more. If it was a reference to something, he didn't get it. With only a twinge of concern, he reached for the door, the handle one of those old fashioned styles made modern with the thumb button, swung the door open and stepped inside with Fawkes right behind him.

The interior surprised him, it looked far more like an art gallery than whatever it was he had expected. Expensive leather chairs were posed perfectly in nooks between dramatically lit glass and chrome cases that showed off a variety of - not art, but high end electronics. And not computers or video crap. Oh no, this was all high tech security items.

Fawkes made a strangled sound and Hobbes spun about to gaze at his partner who was wearing a classic kid in a candy store look on his face.

"See something you like, Fawkes?" Hobbes asked as he sidled up next to Darien.

"Ten years ago... hell, three years ago I'd've killed to own one'a these." He gestured at the palm sized box on the shelf under-lit by blue neon.

Hobbes stared at the device, trying to determine what it was. It looked kinda like a calculator mated with a PDA and fed a steady diet of steroids, but none of that told him _what_ it was. He'd never seen anything like it before. "Okay, I give up. What is it?"

Darien was practically vibrating in place. "It's an electronic skeleton key. Legal, but barely. They're typically used by security companies to override systems. More'n one customer has forgotten a password over the years. Quality ones run close to 10k on the street." He sighed, plainly thinking larcenous thoughts. "Man, the places I could get into with just that piece." His tone was more than a touch wistful.

"Could've, Fawkes, _could_ _have_. You're one'a the good guys now, remember?" Hobbes' admonishment was not enough to wipe the gleam from the former thief's eyes."

"Gentleman, how can I help you today?" a soft cultured voice said from behind them. Both Darien and Bobby turned about to see a man, mid-thirties, or so, wearing a very expensive suit and smiling at them pleasantly. Hobbes wasn't fooled for an instant. Admittedly, the guy appeared to be perfectly comfortable in the Italian chic, but it was obvious that beneath the clothes was an exceedingly dangerous man, and not in the mob-muscle kind of way. More like ex-military turned... turned what, he wasn't sure, but it, strangely, upped his confidence in this Fall guy - a'course _now_ it was funny - Mik had sent them to.

"Mikail Dobrefsky arranged a meeting with you." Hobbes' words earned a soft chuckle from the man.

"Not me, my boss." He checked his watch, which was not the half-expected diamond encrusted Rolex, but one'a those all purpose military ones, and it had seen a _lot_ of use. "If you will follow me..." He led the way through an ornate door, to a marginally less ornate hallway with an ankle deep plush carpet in a dark blue that verged on black. This was where the artwork was. Upon the walls at irregular intervals hung metal sculptures, weaving vines and the like, done in copper, bronze and chromed steel. His ex - Viv - would probably have called them "charming," he, on the other hand, saw their potential use as weapons should this meeting go south in a hurry and they were forced to make an impromptu escape.

With a mental kick to his head, he realized he'd been so focused on other things that he'd forgotten to warn Fawkes of the, albeit slight, chance of this being a set-up. He glanced back at Darien and allowed a hint of a smile to curl his lips upwards. The kid might look relaxed and oblivious, but he missed nothing, just the right amount of suspicion and wariness was in those coffee brown eyes of his.

"In here, gentlemen," their guide directed, and Hobbes tensed in preparation of trouble only to see nothing more innocuous than an office. A comparably austere office after everything else they had seen. There was a single desk with a fancy computer monitor atop it, three leather chairs spaced evenly before the desk, two plants and another of those metal sculptures, this one twisted into a complex knot. "Can I get you anything while you wait? Coffee, water... whiskey, perhaps?"

Hobbes blinked at that last one, though he was starting to think he was gonna need it. Nothing so far had been even close to what he was expecting. Maybe he'd been to one too many meets in smelly back alleys to take this... luxury in stride. "Uh, no thanks, we'll just," Darien proceeded to plop himself into one of the chairs, his legs stretched out about half a mile in front of him, "have a seat."

"Very well. It should only be a few minutes." He left then, closing the door behind him with a soft _snick_.

Instead of sitting, Hobbes slowly turned about, checking out the room in detail, his paranoia kicking in with a fierceness that surprised him.

Fawkes picked up on it instantly. "Hobbes, relax will ya? Don't want to look bad for the cameras." With nothing more than a subtle glance upwards, he showed Hobbes where the pick-up he'd spotted was located. It was definitely subtle; part of the decorative molding that ran about the top of the wall. It was tiny, probably a fish-eye lens, and was snugged into a curlicue in such a way that it would go unnoticed by practically everyone.

"Audio?" Hobbes asked as he forced the muscles of his shoulders to loosen while he pretended to examine the artwork with all the care an expert would.

Darien shifted, crossing one leg over the other at the ankles. "Most likely, though where it's hidden I haven't a clue."

"Then what good are ya?" Hobbes sniped, and glanced over his shoulder at Fawkes, who simply snorted in response.

The door opened then, a large man in his mid-forties with salt and pepper hair stepped in and to one side. He was wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt that was stretched tight over thick cords of muscle, and a shoulder holster, the butt of a Glock 9mm in easy view. Now this was more like what Hobbes had been expecting. This mook he knew how to deal with. That was, until he spoke.

"Boss, hurry up, they're waiting on ya," he said with a heavy British accent that was nothing like the Keeper's lilting upper-crust, make your knees turn to Jell-o one.

"Aye, they are," was the feminine response in a thick Irish brogue. "So's you've told me, Murphy."

Hobbes went completely still as the hitherto unseen "boss" made _her _grand entrance. She was tall, with short black hair and the greenest pair of eyes he'd ever seen. She was also skinny as a rail, but not in an underfed model kinda way, more like a life of hard knocks way. She was all muscle and sinew, the skin lightly tanned and sporting what looked like singe marks, some recent some old. Her face was delicate, almost elfin in appearance, which made sense with that accent. She was damn pretty and he would have gladly hit on her had this not been about business and he was not involved with Claire. He peeked at Fawkes out of the corner of his eye, expecting some sort of typical male reaction - Fawkes was more than capable at being as crude as any construction worker when he wanted to be - but aside from the same surprise Hobbes was feeling there was nothing.

It was the fact that _Fall_ was a woman that left him gaping and unsure which way to turn.

"My apologies," she was pulling off a pair of heavy gloves as she crossed the room and stuffed them into the welding mask she had tucked under one arm, "I was working on another project an' lost track of time." The white t-shirt she wore was smudged with dirt and the jeans had holes in the knees as well as just below the right pocket on her backside, which showed pale flesh instead of the expected undergarment. As she set the mask down on the desk and turned the computer on, he noticed the tattoo on the back of her left wrist. It was small, about the size of a quarter, and was some sort of bird, wings lifted upwards with flames reaching up from below as if devouring the animal. It was familiar, but he wasn't sure from where so he filed it away for later. He had the odd feeling it was important.

Hobbes glanced over at Fawkes who seemed to be taking the whole thing in stride.

"Fall _guy_, huh?" Darien snarked, not about to let that mistake slide by without commentary.

Hobbes shrugged and was about to respond when she snorted.

"Dobby's still attempting to be 'umorous, is 'e?" She shrugged into a black jacket that had plainly been tailored for her and which gave her a far more professional look. "I'll 'ave to 'ave another chat with 'im." Her words were spoken in a soft voice that didn't hide, for an instant, the threat buried deep within them. "Agent Hobbes, Agent Fawkes," she nodded to each in turn, surprising Hobbes that she not only knew they were agents, but who was who, "I believe a fee was agreed upon."

Hobbes nodded and dug into the inner pocket of his sport coat for the envelope that was within. The Official had balked at the amount at first, but eventually coughed up the cash when it became obvious that there was no one else to turn to for the information.

"So what is your name, then?" Darien asked as the money was handed over.

She put the money in a drawer without even counting it, and somehow Hobbes knew that if it later turned out that it wasn't all there he, or the Official, would be hearing about it personally. She then tapped herself in the forehead. "Me mum would smack me a right good one for being so rude. Log it off to me being knackered." She held out a hand for Hobbes to shake, which he did. "Fallon O'Neill."

Hobbes released her hand. "Bobby, and my partner Darien, though I suspect you already know that."

Fallon gave them a smile. "I always check out potential clients prior to any meeting. If I don' like what I see, they don' get in the door... ever."

It was most certainly an interesting response, Hobbes had to admit, and, though he was tempted to ask a few questions on the subject, he kept his trap shut. They were here for information, not idle chit-chat. "About Papadopulos."

"A'course. However, I do need to know which one." She sat down at the desk, her hand hovering over the track ball. "It is a rather large family."

Hobbes had been confused at first, then shocked as it became clear she had information on more than one Papadopulos family member. "Uh, senior... what the hell is his name. Guy who flew into the sun and melted his wings."

"Icarus," Darien supplied.

"Close," Fallon corrected, "it's Icarius." She tapped a few keys. "I'll have a printout for ye in just a moment, but you will find 'im in 'is main olive grove, not the experimental one, at row five lane C." She reached beneath her desk and came up with a single sheet of paper a second later. "GPS tracking code and coordinates are included in the information."

Hobbes took the sheet of paper that she slid across the desk and scanned it. "You're telling me you know exactly where he is at this moment?"

"Aye," she responded.

"And that he's halfway 'round the world on his Greek island?" After all the intel saying that Papadopulos was in the US and in southern California looking to buy... something, Fallon's information made no sense.

She tipped her head to the side, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to figure out if he was being honest or baiting her. "Agent Hobbes, Icarius Papadopulos is dead and 'as been for at least four months. That," she gestured at the sheet of paper in his hand, "is where 'e's buried."

Before that bombshell had time to sink in, Darien muttered, "Then who the hell have we been chasing around the last couple of days?"

Fallon's lips quirked upwards. "I'll give ye this one for free. It's Aristid, Icarius' youngest son." And with that tidbit of information, she shut off her computer and got to her feet. "If that's all, gentlemen..."

"Wait," Hobbes cut her off mid-sentence. "We need info on Aristid."

She shook her head, the short black hair swinging about. "For that we will need to negotiate a fee."

"Fee?" Hobbes growled. "We paid you already."

"Ye paid me for the location of Icarius Papadopulos, which I've given ye. I gifted ye with the fact that Aristid is running the family business now. If ye want additional information on him, we will need to negotiate a price, and it _will_ be quite a bit 'igher." She spread her hands wide as if in apology.

"Crap," Hobbes muttered. "But this is urgent." Urgent was putting it mildly, but he had the feeling there was nothing he could say that would change her mind. On top of that, he knew that the money scrounged for the useless information he'd already been given was more than the Agency could afford.

"Then may I suggest that ye find the money quickly."

He was right, she wasn't feeling generous today. "C'mon, Fawkes, looks like we're back to square one." Hobbes turned away, Murphy was still standing by the door, his arms crossed over his chest and a bland expression on his face.

"Agent Hobbes, if money is as tight as I suspect it is for your Agency," she was making it crystal clear that she knew they didn't work for Fish and Game, at least not directly, "I am more than willing to barter. Say, like for like."

"And what does that mean, exactly?" Hobbes swung about to face her, standing beside Fawkes, who was still sprawled in the chair, and apparently hadn't even attempted to get up. Bobby had to wonder what his partner had picked up on that he'd missed.

"It means, I am willing to trade information for information," she explained, placing her hands flat on the desk and leaning forward ever so slightly.

"Such as?" Hobbes felt he had no choice but to take the bait and see how far he could swim away with it.

"Ach, nothing much. Say... 'is _complete_ file." She pointed one finger at Fawkes.

Darien froze in place, his sudden fascination with his cuticles no longer holding his attention. "Why my file?" he asked, his voice carefully controlled and not giving away anything, which impressed Hobbes to no end, as Fawkes typically wore his heart on his sleeve.

"Come now, ye were a right gurrier until a little over two years ago." She sank back down into the chair, her fingers steepled before her. "Spent most your life as a thief until an... interesting third strike conviction. Bugger the laws of this state, eh?" She'd dropped the formal tone, all the colloquialisms coming out in force, and Hobbes was hard-pressed to weed through them to figure out what she was saying. "Your brother, who was working on some secret project, sprung ye and ye vanished for several weeks. Then all of a sudden your brother is dead and ye be working for the Agency." She shook her head. "Makes no sense. The Agency using ye as an informant, aye. Having you break into places that they'd rather not risk their regular people on, maybe. But hiring ye full time as an agent... It don' fit."

Darien open and closed his mouth, wanting to respond, but obviously not having a clue what to say. Fallon's Cliff Notes version of Fawkes' life was frighteningly accurate and Hobbes could only wonder exactly how much she really knew, and how much danger it put Darien in. "You saying a thief can't decide to turn his life around?" Hobbes commented just to fill the sudden dead air.

"Nay, not sayin' that. Just sayin' it don' sit right. 'Sides there's more'n a few rumors makin' the rounds about ye." She looked Darien right in the eye.

"So?" Darien questioned, straightening in the chair.

"So, I'd like the chance to see 'ow much truth there is to 'em," she told him.

"Not gonna happen," Hobbes assured her.

She shrugged and stood up. "I suggest ye take my offer to your... Official and let 'im decide. The information on Aristid isn't going to get any cheaper." She stepped around the desk, slipping a hand into the pocket of her jacket as she did so. Hobbes had to resist the urge to go for his gun, and was glad he had when all she removed was a business card that she handed to Fawkes as he flowed up out of the chair. It was only then Hobbes realized precisely how tall Fallon was, as the top of her head was somewhere about Fawkes' nose, making her around 5' 8" or so.

Darien took the card with some reluctance. "And this is for?"

"Want to make sure your Mr. Eberts spells me name right when he runs the background check," she informed them with a sly grin. "And there won't be a need for a middleman next time. Call or stop by anytime. We're always open."

"There won't be a next time," Hobbes stated flatly as Darien pocketed the card.

Fallon returned to her seat behind the desk. "Murphy, would ye please escort these gentlemen out?"

"Aye, boss. This way." Coming from the man, it was anything but a suggestion.

-----

Murphy was back minutes later, his look far lighter, almost amused. "I'm thinking they'll be back."

Fallon stood up from behind the desk and exchanged the jacket for the welding mask. "A'course they'll come back." She smiled knowingly as she pulled the gloves back on. "They always do."


	2. Chapter 2

---

The silence in the office was deafening, even the sounds of the early afternoon traffic failed to penetrate into the room as they waited for the Official and his pet lackey, Eberts, to begin this meeting that had been called. Neither man seemed to be in a big hurry. Eberts was skimming over the recently created file; papers had still been spewing from the printer as the partners had entered the room. The Official sat behind his desk, reading glasses on the scuffed surface before him. He seemed to be doing nothing more than staring at some point above the conference table.

Darien and Bobby had reported their less than helpful news to their boss as soon as they had returned. News he was plainly unhappy with, though, in point in fact, it was more information than they'd had before meeting with Fallon. Least they now knew exactly who they were trying to find. They'd handed over the lone sheet of paper and spelled out Fallon's name for Eberts to run that background check, just as she had guessed. Darien, for some reason he couldn't put a finger on, had been unwilling to part with the business card he'd stuffed deep into the pocket of his khakis.

Okay, so maybe there was _some_ reason, considering every time he let his mind wander he caught himself thinking about a pair of brilliant green eyes and their raven-haired possessor who he was certain knew how to use every single one of those _toys_ that had been in the showroom. Man, the things he could have done with just a couple of those pieces. But as Bobby had pronounced, thieving, at least for personal gain, was in the past. He was one'a the good guys now. Wasn't he?

There were days, today included, that his previous profession called to him with a fierceness that made his blood boil and heart pound. Even after all this time, after everything he'd been through, everything he'd learned, he still missed it. Trouble was he'd also figured out that the excitement, the challenge, was gone, thanks to the Quicksilver gland. The adrenaline rush from triggering the gland to pull a slick heist was _not_ the one he was looking for. And the high he got working for the Agency was far more likely to be caused by sheer terror because, once again, his life - or Bobby's - was in danger. It just wasn't the same. Nothing was the same.

He couldn't be a thief with the gland and couldn't do his job at the Agency without it - he'd learned that one the hard way. Yet another time he'd come close to buying the farm since coming to work for the Fat Man, and it would certainly not be the last. There was many a day he wondered if it was worth it, as the _good_ they did never seemed to make much of an impact on the world as a whole. There was always another Stark or Arnaud wannabe waiting in the wings and ready to step up and take over the spot vacated by the last one.

_'Crap.'_ Why the hell was he thinking like this? The answer was as obvious as it was confusing. Fallon O'Neill. She had to be a thief or something. A very successful one, if he was any judge. Better than he'd ever been, that's for sure. He wasn't jealous, so much as envious that she had somehow managed to do what he never would. He thought he'd given up on that dream, moved on, and reconciled with the sudden left turn his life had taken a couple years back. But if he had, why, after one short, if enlightening, meeting, would he be rethinking the situation?

Maybe it was the straightforward way she'd dealt with them. Gave them what they paid for and just enough of a tease to guarantee they'd be back for more. Oh, yeah, he knew that ploy of old. Thing is, this time the price was a tad too high for his taste; for the Official as well, based on the sour expression that had crossed his face when Bobby had detailed her offer. Darien could only wonder if his boss was actually considering the trade. Guess that would depend on how important finding this Aristid guy was. Like there weren't enough people out there who knew about his abilities that shouldn't. Hell, would one more make that big a difference?

At this point, the Official might try anything, as they hadn't been able to verify papa Papadopoulos being dead, least not beyond the fact that the GPS tracking number did indeed put Icarius in the middle of one of his orchards, and, based on high resolution satellite imagery, that the ground had been disturbed within recent memory. Whether it was a grave or not had yet to be determined and would require the cooperation of the Greek government, which had been lacking from the beginning. Their concern seemed to be far less than that shown by the US over similar warnings, which was somewhat understandable given that the events of 9/11 had yet to fade from the public, never mind government awareness.

It had been MI6 that had clued into something going down involving Papadopoulos, but details were beyond sketchy. Mostly rumors and vaguely hinted at threats, but worrisome enough to be passed on... and panned by most of the major agencies in the US. _They_ had bigger fish to fry, so, as usual, it got dumped on the Official's desk, and _he_ took it seriously. Which meant the dynamic duo got to take it seriously as well, and spend their days running down informants and chasing leads that went nowhere fast.

The Official's voice broke Darien out of his musing. "Eberts."

"Yes, sir," Eberts responded as he adjusted the pages of the file. "Fallon O'Neill, born February 29, 1972," Darien did the math and came up with a quick 30 years old, "fourth of six children. Both parents are alive, and living with an extended family in the northernmost part of the Republic of Ireland. Their lands actually cross the border into UK controlled Northern Ireland."

"Huh," Bobby commented. "Must make life interesting."

His interruption didn't slow Eberts down much, if at all. "Family makes its money via wool from a rare cold hardy breed of sheep and..." He paused, as if surprised at the information before him. "High end metalworking."

"Metalworking?" Hobbes repeated, sitting up straighter in his chair, his interest plainly peaked. "What? Security gates? Wrought iron fences?"

"That too." Eberts nodded. "They specialize in recreations of medieval swords and other weaponry." He flipped forward several pages. "Ms. O'Neill does as well, for collectors and the local movie production companies. She also creates artwork, for a substantial amount of money it appears." He turned back.

"Swords? We didn't see anything like that at the shop." Darien shifted, deciding it might be a good time to pay attention. Least the welding mask she'd been carrying about was now explained. She must've been working on some piece when they had arrived. "Artwork, yeah, quite a bit of it. Don't really explain how she knew about Papadopoulos though." Beside him, Bobby nodded in agreement.

"Let him finish," the Official suggested in that tone of voice that meant 'shut up and pay attention.'

"A'course, Chief." Bobby mimed zipping his lip while Darien rolled his eyes at his partner's sudden reversion to obsequious ass-kisser.

"Normal childhood, above average in her classes, but nothing spectacular. Oh..." Eberts' eyes widened in obvious surprise.

"Oh," Darien prompted.

"At 17 she was seriously injured in a car bombing in Londonderry. Her brother, Ian, was killed in the same attack. It is believed she was the target." Eberts looked up from the file at Hobbes' sudden intake of breath.

"Damn," he hissed. "IRA?"

"Yes... and no," Eberts responded, but didn't elaborate. "Ms. O'Neill graduated from the University of Cambridge with a Ph.D. in Metallurgy and minor in Chemistry. Straight out of college she went to work for a mercenary group known as Phoenix."

Bobby slapped the arms of his chair, startling Darien. "That's _it_. I _knew_ I'd seen that before."

"Hobbes, what are you talking about?" Darien swung his head around to watch Bobby, who looked far too happy for this situation.

"The tattoo on her wrist. It was a fancy bird - a phoenix," he explained. "Members of the group were given one after completing their first job."

"Only ranking members wore them as tattoos," the Official added, proving once again that while he might be sitting behind a desk now, he hadn't always and still knew the business.

"She probably picked up her electronics and computer skills with them. Tibbetts was big on code breaking and such. Had some of the best hackers in the world at the time." Hobbes sounded impressed, and if that were true then this Phoenix, and therefore Fallon, were damn good.

"So, she's a high ranking mercenary? Killer for hire? Shouldn't we be arresting her or something?" Arresting her was the last thing on Darien's mind, though there was a variety of ideas battling for the top spot of _or something_.

"Nah, Phoenix weren't hired hit-men, at least not till the end there. Jobs were more up your alley, there, Fawkes." Hobbes chuckled, clearly amused by the irony. "They were high tech thieves. Stole..."

"Or planted," the Official interrupted and Hobbes nodded in agreement.

"Or planted information. You wanted something, they could get it. And they excelled at character assassination." Hobbes still sounded impressed, almost in awe, which disturbed Darien for some reason.

"For a price," Eberts added.

"A hefty one." The Official tapped the top of his desk with one finger, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"However, Ms. O'Neill split, amicably, from Phoenix in 1999 due to a difference methodology. Several other members went with her."

Hobbes nodded knowingly. "Tibbetts made some bad choices at the end and more'n a few members got killed because of it."

Eberts continued. "She and the other members formed their own unit, focusing almost exclusively on the buying and selling of information. They do hire out on occasion, but mainly gather the intelligence on their own. They've only been in the US for three months; prior to arriving in San Diego, they spent eight months in Montreal. The _business_ is, obviously, the quasi-legal front for her more covert activities and covers the majority of her overhead. The metalworking seems to be more for pleasure than profit, though it too is well in the black."

The Official grunted in agreement. "Anything we can use to put pressure on her, Eberts?"

He flipped to the end and froze for an instant. "Sir." He held the file before the Official and pointed to something on the page.

The Official put his glasses on and read the information before him. "Well, that changes things."

"Chief?" Hobbes asked, in an effort to appear attentive.

"We can't touch her."

Darien rubbed his face, just thrilled to hit upon another dead end. "Why not?"

"She has provided information valuable to the US government in the war on terrorism." The Official leaned back in his chair looking like how Darien felt.

"Great, so now what?" Darien had the sinking feeling that his life was suddenly under a microscope. "You're not seriously considering her offer. Are you?"

The Official shook his head. "No. She's just the kind of... person in whose hands I don't want that information to fall." The unintentional pun went over like a ton of lead bricks. "She'd sell it to anyone with the cash to pay for it." He leaned forward, arms coming to rest on the desktop. "I'll make some calls, try to get confirmation on the Papadopoulos situation."

"She's telling the truth about that," Darien stated, certain it was true, but uncertain of his sudden urge to defend her. It was unlikely, based what he now knew, that she needed defending.

"She probably is, but the Greek government might be interested in the info. Maybe then they'll get serious about this threat instead of thinking we're jumping at shadows." His jaw clenched in obvious irritation. Apparently, he'd run into the same sense of indifference that Hobbes had during his requests for more information. "What's the name of her business again? Maybe I'll see if there are any strings to pull that won't jeopardize her _relationship_ with other agencies."

Eberts scanned the pages looking for the name, but it was Darien who responded.

"The fourth monkey." He hadn't gotten the meaning at first, but when he had it only added another layer of mystery to Fallon.

"What the hell does that mean anyway?" Hobbes grouched, plainly not getting it.

Eberts piped up first, "Traditionally, the three monkeys are, 'see no evil'..."

"'Hear no evil'...," the Official took his turn as was mandatory. They had to do the finish each others sentences thing at least once every meeting.

"'Speak no evil.' Yeah, I know. But the fourth monkey?" Hobbes questioned, again.

"Uh," all eyes turned to Darien, "it's kinda a Zen update of the thing." He paused, glancing about at the men in the room, but it was obvious that none of them had an inkling what he was talking about. "The fourth is 'do no evil'."

"Huh," Hobbes grunted. "Kinda weird for a merc, even a reformed one." The 'Fish and Eberts agreed with that sentiment with sage nods. Funny, but it made sense to Darien, fit right in with her line about 'if she don't like 'em they don't get in the door.'

"Hardly reformed," the Official commented.

"She's not our enemy," Darien asserted, though even he couldn't explain the why of it.

"That don't make her our friend, pal," Hobbes pointed out. "Just 'cause she sells pretty toys that remind you of your hey-days as a thief..."

_'Ouch.'_ "It's not that," Darien argued anyway. If push came to shove, he'd have to admit, if only to himself, that it _was_ part of it. Though why he'd trust another thief... He wouldn't, not anymore. He'd learned _that_ lesson the hard way several times. He just had the feeling there was something more beneath the surface of Fallon than just a mercenary who would sell out her grandma for the right price.

"A con knows a con?" Eberts surmised.

Darien shook his head. "More like the opposite."

Hobbes sighed dramatically. "Taken in by a pair of green eyes and feminine curves." He raised his hands to pantomime an hourglass figure, making Darien chuckle. "What's with you and chicks on our cases, huh?"

Darien heard the question, but failed to respond as his own, 'more like the opposite' had given him an idea. "Ebes, we know Papadopoulos is in town buying, right?"

"That's what the intel suggests," Eberts confirmed.

"What're you thinking, Fawkes?" Hobbes turned to sit sideways and eye Darien speculatively.

Darien held his hand up for patience. "Buying what? Weapons? Drugs? Hookers?"

The Official chuckled. "None of the above. Icarius may have liquidated a large portion of his arsenal, but there is certain to be a cache or two left behind. Drugs... Not the kind you're thinking of."

Darien nodded his head slowly. "So he's after something like a virus or poison. Sarin gas? Ricin maybe?"

"Sounds 'bout right," Hobbes agreed, sounding like he might have gotten himself on the same train of thought as Darien.

"So, who's he buying it from?"

Darien's seemingly simple question caused the room to go still for several long seconds. It was broken by a single word.

"Eberts."

"On it, sir." Eberts rushed to the laptop on the small table off to one side of the room. "I'll have a preliminary list for you in 15 minutes."

"Good work," the Official proclaimed.

---

Darien glanced at his watch, forcing his eyes to focus and then decipher the meaning of the numbers and hands on the face. He finally discerned it was quarter past one in the morning, which made him grumble under his breath. They'd been on this search - ha! more like a frickin' snipe hunt - for about 36 hours now, running on coffee that made his nerves sing and Hobbes even more paranoid than usual, and catnaps that did little to restore energy and more often left reddened eyes aching worse than before they'd been shut with the false promise of actual sleep. Both he and Bobby looked like they'd been gnawed on, reminiscent of table leg discovered by a teething puppy. And for what? Zip. Zilch. Nada. Bupkus.

They'd been all over the frickin' place the last day and a half. Hit every corner of San Diego county looking for the creeps on Eberts' list. When the first dozen turned up nothing - most of them hadn't any more clue about Aristid being in charge of the Papadopoulos family business than the Agency - he'd expanded the search area. Sending them as far west as New Mexico, north to Los Angeles and most recently Nevada, just a stone's throw away from the military nut-house where Charlie Fogarty had spent 30 years of his life trapped in his own mind.

Thank god they were almost home. Luckily, traffic was light on Interstate 15 as Hobbes had plainly zoned out and was driving on autopilot. Darien had offered to take his turn behind the wheel a while back, but was refused. Bobby tended to get more possessive when wired extra tight, so Darien hadn't pushed it. However, he had stayed awake just in case. Not that he didn't trust Bobby, but he was just as exhausted as Darien and an accident was something neither of them needed.

The half mile warning sign for their exit flashed by without any reaction from Hobbes. Darien counted slowly to 20, waiting for the lane switch, and when it didn't happen he said, "Hobbes."

Hobbes twitched, snapping back to full awareness with a growled, "What?"

"Our exit." Darien kept calm, it really wasn't a big deal if they missed it, there were other ones that'd get them home; this one was just the quickest.

Darien expected Hobbes to snap back, but instead he simply mumbled, "Oh. Yeah," flipped on the turn signal and eased his way over into the exit lane with a couple car lengths to spare.

"You doing okay over there, Skipper?"

"Huh?" Hobbes ran a hand over his face and sat up straighter. "I'm beat," he finally answered.

"You and me both." Darien watched the buildings grow taller about them as they arrived in downtown proper. "Hobbes, you are so not heading for the Agency."

Hobbes glanced Darien's way. "Course I am. Maybe Eberts has come up with some more names."

Darien shook his head, noting absently that it had the side effect of making him lightheaded. "Screw the Fatman. We're wiped. He can find someone else to run down leads while we catch some Zs."

"Fawkes, it's our case...," Hobbes whined, much to Darien's amazement. "We could try contacting Monroe, maybe she..."

"She ain't gonna have nothing more than anyone else. 'Sides she's officially incommunicado, remember? We need some frickin' _help_ on this one," Darien groused.

"You heard the Chief, if we ask for assistance we'll have to share the credit," Hobbes reminded Darien.

He muttered, "Inter-agency cooperation my ass," then yawned hugely. "We're running outta road here and there's one hell of a cliff at the end of it."

Bobby apparently couldn't drum up the energy to argue. He stopped at a yellow light, drooping noticeably while waiting for it to cycle through to green.

"Hobbes..."

"Look, all the intelligence agencies in the country, hell, half the world, are in an uproar for missing the boat on Bin Laden's plot, and now they're too busy trying to find 'im to worry about some minor delusions of grandeur by Papadopoulos, especially when his target ain't in the US." Hobbes pressed the accelerator when the car behind them honked. The light had turned green without either of them noticing.

"Then why are we?" Darien really wanted to know. He'd been damn surprised the CIA or someone else hadn't tried to co-opt him for duty in Afghanistan, not that he _wanted_ to go, mind you, he got into enough trouble right here in San Diego on any given day to want to go out looking for more.

"Two reasons." Hobbes took the next left, heading towards Darien's place instead of the Harding building. "First: the bastard's doing his buying in _our_ backyard. We have the time and the ability to find him. Second: The Official wants the Agency to stay... anonymous. What with the shake-up and the new Homeland Security Bureau that's being planned, he don't want to get absorbed."

Darien thought on that for a few minutes. "You mean he's worried about losing control of me - the gland - don't you."

Hobbes shook his head. "That's part of it, yeah. But so long as the Agency is the Agency we aren't accountable to anyone."

"C'mon, Hobbes, the Official answers to _someone_," Darien pointed out, knowing it was true. He was even willing to bet he knew exactly _who_ that someone was; he just hadn't confirmed it yet.

"That he does, my friend, but to who?" Hobbes got this sly look on his face that meant he _did_ know who the fat man's boss was.

"And _he_ ain't gonna be making a call to the Agency?"

"I'm thinking he's too busy chasing ghosts to give a rat's ass about the Agency. Six months from now that situation might be different." Hobbes turned onto Park Boulevard, which meant Darien was almost home.

"So, while the CIA, NSA and others are after the big bad wolf, we're stuck playing with Little Red Riding Hood." Darien wasn't quite sure how to react to that fact, not that the Agency had ever been a front runner in the intelligence biz, but still... It just wasn't all that thrilling to be reminded exactly where his employer was in the pecking order.

"Someone has to keep the home fires burning." Hobbes pulled in front of the building and put the van into park. "Get some sleep, Fawkes. I'll give you a call 'round lunch time and get you up to speed."

Darien opened the door and slipped out into the cool, damp night air. It felt like there was going to be fog by dawn. "You heading to Claire's?" he asked out of curiosity.

"Not tonight. No need for her to be going short on sleep. I'll stop by the Keep and say 'hi' tomorrow."

"Do more than say 'hi' I'm betting," Darien said around a grin.

Hobbes returned the grin. "Maybe. G'night, Fawkes."

"Night." Darien swung the door shut and waited as the van rolled down the street, took the next left and vanished from sight. He fumbled out his keys with one hand and rubbed the back of his head with the other. He wanted to solve this problem, wanted this current mission over with so he could go back to worrying about ordinary things like, oh, Chrysalis or Arnaud's next attempt to screw up his life. _'Crap.'_ He needed to do laundry - now there was something with a direct impact on his life. But not just this second. Later, hours later, after he'd gotten some sleep.

---

It was only a few minutes past 7 a.m. when Hobbes made the final turn in the basement corridors on the way to Lab 101. He'd stopped by his office first to write up a quick report detailing their failure to find any leads on Papadopoulos or his whereabouts. He'd been hoping there would be some new names and addresses from Eberts, but there was nothing but the usual day to day crud sitting on his desk, which he ignored. He was left wondering if the whole mission was nothing more than smoke and mirrors. 'Cept that didn't make any sense, as the Chief had even, albeit grudgingly, agreed to pay overtime, and there was no way in hell he'd do that for anything but a real threat.

Hobbes just couldn't figure out why they were unable to get a handle on this mook. Flashing his picture around hadn't done a lick'a good either. Oh, a few of the dealers they'd badgered recognized him, but none would admit to having any recent contact with him.

It was driving him nuts. Okay, more nuts than usual. To the point where he'd only managed to get a couple hours of sleep before waking with the need to pour over the rough, vague, uninformative information that they _did_ have in a vain attempt to squeeze just one more drop of insight out of it. He came up blank. Just as blank as every other time. And now... now he was just plain tired.

He slid his mag key through the slot, the light changing from red to green, and stepped through the as soon as the door had moved far enough to the side. "Morning, Claire."

"Good morning, Bobby." Claire looked up from the microscope and frowned as soon as her eyes settled upon him. "You look like crap." She was up and at his side in an instant. With a gentle, but insistent urging, she had him across the lab and seated upon the exam chair.

"When was the last time you slept?" she asked as she retrieved her stethoscope and set the diaphragm over his heart.

"Uh..."

"A full night's sleep," she elaborated, as if knowing he was gonna try and dodge around the question.

"Coupla days," he admitted.

"Have you been taking your medication?" She slipped the stethoscope about her neck and took his wrist in her hand in an effort to check his pulse.

"Yes, mom," Hobbes snarked, though he fully realized her concern was valid one. He'd forgotten to take them in the past when work got crazier than usual.

"Mission not going well?" She shifted her grip, her hand curving warmly about his.

"Not going anywhere is the problem." He rubbed his face with one hand, while giving hers a squeeze with the other and tried not to let the wave of exhaustion that crashed upon him show.

It became obvious that he had failed when Claire said, "Go home."

"Keep, I..."

"You will go home, get a minimum of eight hours of sleep, and eat at least 1500 calories of food. Doctor's orders."

"But the Official..." Hobbes began, only to be interrupted again.

"Can find someone else to do the work for today." Her face was set and tone firm. He knew there'd be no changing her mind.

With a sigh he muttered, "Fawkes said the same thing."

"A very wise man," she affirmed. "I'm ordering the same for him. I don't want to see either of you in this building before 8 a.m. tomorrow. Understood?"

"But..." he tried.

"_I_ will deal with the Official." Her look softened. "You're no good to him like this, Bobby."

"Yeah, I guess." Not agreement so much as acquiescence . He really was tired. "You gonna tag along and make sure I'm tucked in?"

Claire ducked her head, blonde hair hiding her face. "Bobby..."

He tugged her closer, curving an arm about her waist. "How about dinner then?" He'd known she would demur, if only for the simple fact that if she went home with him, he wouldn't get the sleep he needed. Not for a while, anyway. "I'll cook," he offered, his face moving slowly closer to hers. "And _then_ you can tuck me in."

Claire's eyes sparkled as she leaned in closer, lips mere millimeters away from his. "I believe I could be persuaded," she said softly, her breath tickling along his skin.

"What do I hafta do to persuade you?" His heart was pounding in his chest and he suddenly wasn't the least bit tired.

She wormed her body between his legs and pressed herself against him. "A token, kind sir, is all that I require."

_'Damn.'_ She'd done it again. Hit upon one'a his personal fantasies. Him the white knight upon his charger saying farewell to the maiden fair before heading off to fight evil and injustice. His own private Camelot. Once upon a time it had been Vivian with whom he'd tried to create that idyllic setting, but that dream had been shattered, his various mental issues finally becoming more than she could handle. No longer would he be her cure to the risk of suffering through a life of sameness. Viv had moved on.

And now, so had he.

Hobbes buried a hand in the glorious golden strands of Claire's hair and closed the remaining distance between them. His lips brushing across hers for an instant only. Bad enough he'd jumped off that damn pier, even worse to go fishing at the office, but today he didn't care. Perhaps hoping that the intimate meeting of lips and bodies would act like some magic potion and instantly revitalize him, granting him the strength to return to the proverbial field of battle and save the day. With a small sound that was equal parts desire and frustration, he dove back in. Claire proceeded to turn into soft butter in his arms, her lips parting ever so slightly in obvious invitation, which he took, the tip of his tongue sipping at her lips prior to diving inside to drink deep.

Claire moaned, the sound swallowed up by his mouth, her hands sliding up his thighs and creating a delicious ache at their apex. He shifted his hands to her shoulders and gently, but firmly put some distance between the two of them. "Will that do, milady?" His voice was little more than a basso rumble.

Her eyes were drowsy with desire, but she managed a soft, "Ah, yes, that'll do quite nicely." She took a step back, creating just enough space to keep them from succumbing to temptation again, and straightened her clothing. Not that it was needed, only her hair was mussed, though the pink color of her cheeks might be a dead giveaway to some. But no more so than the obvious evidence of his own arousal.

"Claire..."

"Go home, Bobby, and get some sleep," she said in the best doctor voice she was capable of at the moment.

"Sleep. "Hobbes snorted in amusement. "Eventually, Keepy, once things... settle _down _a bit."

Claire blushed, smiling. "I'll come by around seven. Can I bring anything?"

Hobbes hopped off the exam chair and resisted the urge to wrap her in his arms and do far more than just kiss her. "Wine?" he suggested.

"Done. Now get going before the Official finds you here. I'll call Darien and let him know he's off the hook for today."

"Not till noon, Keepy, he was wiped." Together they walked towards the lab door.

"I imagine he was. Noon then." She chuckled softly. "He'll probably still be asleep."

"Well, that's our Fawkesy, never one to miss his beauty sleep." The door slid open and Bobby stepped through.

"Not that he needs it," Claire observed. "Has he spoken to you about..."

Hobbes knew exactly what she was referring to and shook his head. "Nah, and asking him just makes him clam up and sulk." Claire frowned. "Claire, don't worry about it. When he falls, and he will, it'll be a bigger surprise to him than us."

"I hope so, Bobby. I really hope so."


	3. Chapter 3

---

Darien had come to a decision. Somewhere between the Keeper's wake up call just after noon, the three loads of desperately-needed-to-be-washed laundry, and 5 p.m. when he'd grabbed his jacket and keys and left his apartment he'd decided to get the answers they just-as-desperately-needed to put this case to bed. Trouble was, there was only one place he knew of to do that. Of course, he still had to figure out exactly what he was going to _pay_ for the information. He knew he didn't have the cash for it - maybe he should've taken his cut of Johnny Book's money when he'd had the chance - and he was pretty sure any information he'd acquired through the Agency, with the exception of two things - one of which he wasn't willing to give up on pain of a harvesting party hosted by good ole Charlie Borden - would either be valueless or something that could be discovered by other means should it be wanted.

He had parked a block over, in one of those empty lots turned into tightly packed parking spaces. It wasn't cheap, but it did have a real live (mostly) human being keeping an eye on things. Plus he wouldn't be at the receiving end of a ticket from the meter maid if he didn't make it back in time to feed the meter. He tried to look casual, just another bored local wandering past some of the more colorful shops in the area. Though tourist areas were nearby, this particular street catered far more to those who lived here, lacking the garish clothing and knickknacks that seemed to be an inevitable part of living off the largess of visitors to the city. He took the time to browse, window shopping just like the few others on the street were as he made his way towards the distinct entrance of _the fourth monkey_.

He was going to try and trade what he knew about Chrysalis for the info on Papadopoulos. He doubted even Fallon knew about them, given how far under the radar they flew. That fact had become frighteningly obvious when he'd spent a short time - very short, thankfully - working for the FBI. That there were gaping holes in their so-called intelligence had smacked Darien with a huge dose of reality and the difference between the Agency and the rest of the oxymorons in government intelligence. And he'd thought only Jones was that stupid. Oh no, it appeared they_ all_ were. Although it was possible that it wasn't stupidity so much as blindness. The status quo was always far easier to handle than the truth.

There was the slight issue of him going into this bargaining session without any real proof, but he hoped his story would be enough to peak her interest. From there, he could always take her on a tour of the local Chrysalis sites. The camp that was anything but a camp, the Stork fertility clinics, the (former) Cerberus Sentinel Corporation downtown, or the winery where Stark had been milking cows for Quicksilver. And if they weren't enough he could always make copies of the files buried in the Archives, carefully edited, of course. Those would be tangible proof. Right?

Darien snorted softly to himself; if Fallon was even half as good as he suspected, siccing her on Stark and company might be unfair. She'd have all their secrets laid bare for all to see within a short span of time. What she'd do with the info was something else entirely. He couldn't see her suddenly becoming all altruistic and sending the intel hither and yon just to make certain their seeming grandiose plans for world domination didn't come to fruition.

That realization caused Darien to frown slightly, wishing it wasn't the only coin he had to bargain with. He shook off the momentary worry; it'd be enough. It had to be. As he mounted the steps to the front door, it struck him again that this building was markedly different from those nearby. For instance, the wide stone steps to the double door - the only one of it's kind on the street and far more like the entryways found in Old Town proper. He was surprised to find the door locked, and stared at the handle in disbelief, quite certain that Fallon had said, 'we never close.' Strangely he wondered if something might be wrong; her line of work must have earned her more than a few enemies over the years, and he doubted Murphy had been wearing that gun the other day just for show.

He trotted back down the steps and stopped on the sidewalk, pondering what his next move should be. He gazed along the row of buildings and noticed the gap between Fallon's and the one to the right. Partly out of curiosity, he headed for it and discovered an alleyway that cut between the two buildings. It was only about six feet wide - he could just touch the walls on either side with his arms outstretched - and it was amazingly clean, no stench of rotting garbage or urine to make the nose wrinkle in disgust. He again noticed the difference in construction, the building to his right was clearly made from concrete block and painted a pale green, while Fallon's was dark gray stone, and _old_ if he were any judge, which he wasn't, really. Unusually _warm_ stone towards the end, especially for an alley that probably spent the majority of the day buried deep in shadows. The height of the building was all wrong to allow sun to hit the ground except for a few stray minutes around noon, and it was well past that time of day. Even if it had been warmed by sunlight, it would have cooled long before now.

Darien paused about five feet from the end of the wall and set both palms flat against it to feel heat radiating from the stone and mortar, the source seeming to be from the inside. It took him a moment before he fit the pieces together, but he finally slipped them into place to complete the puzzle - forges. If she really was pouring and bending metal in there, she would need a heat source and lots of it. He was willing to bet the building, or at least the foundation dated back to the turn of the century and the furnaces, or whatever the hell they were called, had already existed when she bought the place and had simply been modified for their current use. Maybe it had been a bakery or the like in its original incarnation. He took up forward motion again; trying to calculate how much it had probably cost her to set up a foundry, even a small one, in San Diego. Not so much it wasn't worth her while, obviously.

As he came to the end of the alley he discovered that her building extended a good 10 feet further than the green one next door. That meant the 'road' that ran behind the row of stores for deliveries narrowed to the point where most SUVs, never mind most semi-trucks, wouldn't fit through. It apparently wasn't that big of an issue since the lot directly behind it was empty save for a beat up Jeep Wrangler and a sign proclaiming it was private. He didn't know if it had come with the building, or had been bought separately, but it had been used for parking for years based on the faded lines marking the spaces. The side that faced the next street over was gated and neatly fenced, effectively keeping out anyone desperate to find a place to park.

The rear of Fallon's store was more of that mortar and stone and dominated by two large loading bays that conveniently lined up with the parking lot, and a single ordinary door with an ancient security light hung above it. The loading doors were made of a heavy gauge steel that parted in the middle to slide to the side and that he doubted he could move even if they had been unlocked, however...

He checked the area and was pleased to find himself alone. He boldly strode over to the door, removing his lockpicks from the inner pocket of his jacket as he did. He gave the doorway a cursory check for alarms or cameras and saw none, the way apparently clear. He had the picks inserted and the pair of locks, regular and deadbolt, singing to his tune in moments. He turned the knob, removed the picks, and slipped them back into his pocket as he swung the door open and quickly stepped into the darkened interior.

He took a second to let his eyes to adjust before looking over the room. To his right, along the alley wall, was what looked like a giant brick oven, banked coals still glowing a deep red in the depths. The majority of the floor space was taken up with four sturdy benches with pointy things in various stages of construction - from newly forged to nearly complete - upon them. Overall the place was neat and clean, tools put away, protective gear like gloves and aprons hung on racks, and the floors swept clean of detritus. Whatever had caused the shop to close today hadn't been unexpected.

"Ye be either bloody brave or a right eejit."

Darien started, his head snapping about at the unexpected voice and found himself staring at a pair of green eyes hovering above the muzzle of a large handgun. He swallowed hard, hoping like hell she wasn't the type to shoot first and poke at the body later. He tried his best to look nonchalant and shrugged, "That would depend on the day."

Fallon snorted, the gun not wavering an inch. "Thought it was your partner who was off 'is nut, not ye."

Darien blinked, at a momentary loss as to what she was saying, but it finally registered. "Maybe it's contagious," he suggested, taking a cautious step forward.

"An' maybe it's dumb luck," she countered, the gun lowering slightly, so that it was now aimed at his midsection instead of his head, which wasn't much of an improvement to his way of thinking.

"And why is that?" he asked, being careful not to make any move that would look suspicious.

"'Cause I spotted ye, afore ye set off the alarm," she informed him. "Didn' your ma..." She paused, her train of thought switching tracks. "Your Aunt, teach ye it's not nice to break into people's homes?"

He met her eyes, completely unrepentant, forcing himself not to react to the fact that she knew that he'd been raised by his Aunt Celia and that his mom was long gone. "Apparently not," was his flippant reply. "'Sides, I coulda talked my way outta it when the cops showed. That fancy badge I have is good for a few things now and then."

"And who says the alarm brings the local guard?" The gun finally dropped away completely and he sighed in relief.

That the alarm brought someone other than the police was an interesting twist that he hadn't expected, but didn't doubt was true. "Then I guess I should thank you." He watched her eyes narrow, probably wondering why he'd broken into her place. "I'll just be going..."

The gun was suddenly aimed at his midsection again and he tried not to flinch in reaction. Though flinching would be better than suddenly disappearing, which part of him would have preferred, the way adrenaline was suddenly zinging along his veins. He didn't _think_ she'd shoot him, though his confidence in the matter was dropping rapidly.

"What? Ye go through all that effort to break in and then just up an' leave? Comp'ny not good 'nuff for ye?" The gun waved about as her hands joined in the conversation, and he got the distinct impression that something was off with her.

He raised his hands slowly, to show he was unarmed. "Look, I made a mistake and I don't want any trouble..."

She laughed. "A blaggard like ye not looking for trouble? The divil 'imself is buyin' long-johns, 'bout now." The hand wielding the gun dropped to her side and she seemed to consider something long and hard before saying, "Care to join me in a few shorts?"

Again, he had to take a second to translate and then had to try and convince himself he was doing it right. Had she just invited him to stay for a drink? To test that theory he asked, "Well, are you planning on getting me drunk and using me for your personal pleasure?" He half expected her to shoot without warning, but instead she chuckled softly.

"Only if ye be _very_ jammy. C'mon." She gestured for him to move with the gun and he joined her with what was surely a bemused expression on his face. She reached inside the doorway she'd been standing next to and retrieved a bottle filled with a dark amber liquid. "This way." She pointed the way with the gun and Darien reached out and set his hand about hers as it dawned on him that she was quite thoroughly tanked.

"How about I carry this for you?"

"Aye, why not?" She met his eyes and released the weapon to his hold. "Not like it's loaded."

Darien took a look at the gun, noting that it was indeed missing the clip. He gave her a questioning look.

"I might be fluthered, but I'm not stupid," she informed him, smiling slightly and striding off towards the end of the hall.

"Stupid is not something I'd ever accuse you of being." He stuffed the gun into the pocket of his jacket for the time being and followed her. The hall ended at a doorway, which she opened to reveal a staircase leading up. "You live here?" he asked at the first landing.

"Aye." She stopped before a door and turned back. "Why does everyone think I should be living in some grand palace? Not like I need a lot of space. It's jus' me."

Darien decided to be as honest as possible with his answer. "It's California. If you have money then you must be livin' large."

Fallon nodded slowly, as if not quite sure she understood. "Not one a full shilling, eh?" She swung the door open and walked inside. "Welcome to me 'umble abode." Darien stepped within and shut the door as she made her way to the kitchen.

Here there were swords; mounted on the walls, in racks under the windows, even leaning in corners. There was also more artwork, including a piece that slowly shifted and moved in the breeze admitted by the open window. The furniture was austere in comparison: a plain brown sofa flanked by two matching chairs that surrounded a glass topped coffee table. The dining area was off to the right, as was the kitchen, and further in were at least two rooms behind closed doors. The dining table was currently playing host to several boxes, and its chairs were stacked off to one side, signifying its lack of use for meals. The apartment was an odd mixture of simple and complex, and he could only wonder how much of that was a reflection of the person who lived there.

"'Ave a seat," she called out from the kitchen where he could hear her banging about.

"Hey, could you do me a favor?" he asked up as he followed her. He found her rummaging through her cabinets, as if she wasn't yet certain where things were located.

"Maybe. What is it?" She hadn't even turned to look at him as she altered her search to a box on the counter.

"Any chance you could tone down the Irishisms? It wasn't one of my language choices back in high school." So, it could be construed as a rude request for a guest, especially when the host's home was decked out in medieval weaponry, but he figured it was worth the risk. Her burst of laughter proved him correct on that one.

"I'll try. The 'isms' kinda stick with one, y'know?" She'd moved from the box on the counter to one on the floor. It was looking more and more like she spent very little time in her own home.

"Fair 'nuff. Need some help?"

"Nay. I'll find 'em in a sec." She shot a mock glare in his direction "Do I need to _make_ ye sit?"

Darien raised hands in surrender for the second time. "Nope." He backed out of the kitchen, leaving her to her search and headed back to the living room.

He chose the chair to the left of the sofa and settled back into it, finding it surprisingly comfortable considering how thin the padding appeared to be. His foot connected with something and he glanced down to see an empty bottle half under the chair. He picked it up, noting it matched the one Fallon had brought with her. As he settled back into the chair, something hard and unyielding poked him in the side. He fumbled about and retrieved the gun from his pocket. Apparently, medieval wasn't the only type of weaponry she was familiar with. His inexperienced eye pegged it as a match for the one Murphy had been wearing the other day. He shook his head and set the gun atop the table. He returned his attention to the bottle and sniffed the open top, the alcohol content enough to make his eyes water, and he wondered exactly how much of it she had drunk before he'd shown up on her doorstep.

"So, what are you celebrating?"

Fallon came out of the kitchen carrying two glasses held between her fingers and the mate to the bottle he held in his hand, which he returned to the floor. "Celebratin'? Guess ye can call it that." She plopped down on the sofa, and efficiently poured the liquid into the glasses. Once she'd set the bottle down, she handed one to Darien. "More like an anniversary. Me brother was killed today."

"Oh," Darien responded effusively. He lifted the glass and downed a large swallow to cover his embarrassment. There was a burst of flavor across his tongue and then pain as the volatile liquid burned its way down his throat and into his stomach. He gasped aloud and then coughed, the fumes practically a fog in the air in front of him. "Smooth," he commented, his voice hoarse.

She shook her head, a hint of a smile on her face. "Smooth is right. That's me family's private label. Not many outside Ireland proper get the chance to try it." She tossed back the contents of her glass, showing that she was immune to the effects. She'd probably grown up drinking the stuff.

He swirled the remainder before taking a cautious sip. It didn't cause nearly the damage the first sample had; maybe the lining of his throat had been burned away. "Do you miss them?"

She shrugged and poured more whiskey into his glass. "Aye, but I visit whenever I get the chance." She ran a hand through her hair. "They don't really approve of what I do. Me da and uncle Liam would still rather I run the foundry back 'ome."

"I get that. I certainly didn't follow the path any of my family hoped for." He eyed the contents of his glass, trying to judge how much it would be safe for him to drink before he reached the state of 'fluthered.' "But who ever does."

"Too right," she agreed. "Least they do their best to understand. Losing Ian..." She shook her head, eyes closing for a long moment.

The pain in her voice was a physical thing and Darien couldn't help but feel sympathy, considering he'd been through a similar life changing event. He hadn't a clue why she had invited him in other than some, perhaps, visceral need to not be alone, a need he could most certainly relate to. Although, he had the feeling alone is typically how she spent this particular day. "What happened?" he heard himself asking, the alcohol plainly making him stupider than usual.

Fallon twitched as if caught completely off guard by his, to him, innocent question. "Ask the 'ard ones, now do ye?"

Given that Father Tom had made that same observation not so long ago, one of the few things he remembered from that silver-eyed incident, Darien tipped his head in acknowledgement. "So I've been told."

She snorted derisively, finished off the contents of her glass in three slow swallows, and then refilled it. Darien wasn't expecting her to answer; it wasn't any of his business after all. There was no need to pry into her personal life and force her to relive a past that plainly caused her pain, if this drowning her sorrows was anything to go by.

So he was very surprised when she said, "Ye gotta understand that it's different over there. We live so close to the border that it 'as affected me family as much as any a'those in the country proper. You Americans have nothing that comes close."

For a second Darien wanted to argue that point, but even through the buzz the alcohol had already generated, he knew she was right, to a degree anyway. "Did your family," he made sure to choose his phrasing carefully, "step on some toes?"

She shook her head and leaned forward to rest her forearms on her thighs. "Nah, not directly. Me family stays out of politics as much as possible. We pay our taxes and bribes as necessary, and let the politicians run their little fiefdoms in peace. Trouble is, not all of our friends do the same."

"Oof. Sideswiped, were you?" He hadn't meant to mimic her accent and closed his eyes, only to snap them open them a second later when the world seemed to spin about him. Oh man, he wasn't gonna be driving home for quite a while. The whiskey was frickin' _potent_.

She just raised her eyebrows at him. "Aye, we was. Keep in mind I didn' learn most'a this until after the fact." Darien nodded in what he hoped was encouragement. "One'a me da's friends is a Chief Inspector in Derry." At Darien's blank look she added, "Like one a your plainclothes detectives; a 'igh-ranking one."

"Ah, got it."

"'E and 'is men bagged themselves some IRA members. Weren't more'n 20 of them, but they'd been causing havoc for a few months and the city was more'n tired of it. Seamus - ah, me da's friend is named Seamus -" she had plainly just realized she'd forgotten to mention the man's name before now, "ended up being the one they blamed, an' those that didn't get rounded up vowed revenge if their friends weren't released." She gave Darien a wry grin. "Trite, eh?"

"Very," he agreed, and watched as she slithered off the sofa to sit on the floor.

"They tried threats, which didn' work, so they decided a demonstration was in order." She set her half-full glass on the table and absently scratched the side of her neck. "Thing is, that while me family might have money and some power, they've no real influence, and like it that way. Yet the bleeding gits decided to use us to scare Seamus."

So far, everything she'd said had made sense. A warped sort of sense, admittedly, but considering his encounters with terrorists and their ilk it wasn't an idea from the deep corner of left field by any means. They'd connected dots, just so happened they were the wrong ones. "'Kay, I get the connection to your dad, but why target you?"

A hint of a smile crossed her features. "Gave ye just the short version of me file, eh?"

What was Darien supposed to do? Say _no_ and lie when he had clearly revealed the truth already? "Yeah."

She nodded carefully, as if her head were too heavy for her to support. "Was wondering why ye asked. Ye sure ye want to 'ear this?" She eyed him speculatively.

Actually, he did. There was just something about her that had grabbed him and held on. On top of that, he was certain he was seeing Fallon - the person, as opposed to the hard-nosed businesswoman, or the supposedly dangerous mercenary. The alcohol and unique circumstances conspired to give him a glimpse of her human side, much like the occasion where he'd learned Claire's name by following her about while invisible. He wasn't quite sure doing it this way, with Fallon's guard down, was any less underhanded, but it had been _her_ who initiated the contact. It wasn't wrong to take advantage of that, was it?

"All of it."

If she was surprised, she didn't let it show. "Aye, ye do." She took a moment to rub her eyes before returning to her tale. "I'd been a friend of Seamus' son, Sean, since 'bout the time we both began toddling, and I saw 'im fairly often. There were always rumors about that we was betrothed, but it was the furthest thing from the truth. T'was assumed they'd heard the rumor too." She shrugged, as if saying that she still didn't understand why people had chosen to believe the falsehood. "I was on me way to visit 'im, an' Ian," her voice cracked on her brother's name and she took a moment to compose herself, "was escorting me. As a precaution, y'know? No one was 'specting any trouble." She met Darien's eyes squarely. "The car was parked on the side of the road, nothing suspicious 'bout it. Just a car. When we came up alongside it, it exploded." Her eyes closed and she hugged her knees to her chest. "I musta blacked out for a second, 'cause when I came to I was trapped between Ian and what was left of the wall. The building'd been pretty banged up in the blast. Me left side felt like it was on fire and Ian... 'E just lay there, staring at me. After a minute or two I realized 'alf his face was gone."

"Crap," Darien muttered, as the minor epithet was not nearly strong enough to express his feelings. He was amazed that she'd been able, never mind willing, to tell him.

"I passed out for real then, and what little memory I do 'ave for the next week or so is fuzzy and unreliable at best." She relaxed the death grip on her legs and tipped her head so that her neck popped.

"I'll bet. You were rescued?" he asked, his heart pounding as memories of Kevin's last moments played out on that IMAX screen in his mind.

She managed a harsh bark of laughter. "Depends on your definition of 'rescued.' The fecks figured out right quick that they'd missed their target - me - and came up with a new plan on the fly. They dragged me outta the rubble, away from Ian, and told Seamus that I'd be returned when their friends were released."

Darien was suddenly stone cold sober, the last condition he wanted to be in while hearing this, and stared at her in disbelief. If she were telling the truth... But why would she lie? It wasn't as if she needed or wanted his sympathy, she had nothing to gain by spinning some elaborate con to tug his heartstrings. So, that meant the horror story he was listening to was real. Except... "Weren't you hurt in the explosion?"

"Aye. I've scars from shoulder to mid-thigh on me left side. They tried skin grafts to fix some a'em, but they'd gotten a mite infected and it din' take too well," she sneered this, as if daring him to ask to see the damage as proof.

He didn't need to _see_; he believed her, and was willing to bet the physical scars didn't go nearly as deep as the psychological ones. "How long?" he asked, as he downed the remaining liquid and debated the merits of more. He was wishing the drunk he should be enjoying hadn't been banished by her words.

"Was I a hostage?" He nodded. "Three days." She leaned her head back on the sofa cushion and stared blindly at the ceiling. "I don' remember much. Just... snapshots. Faces, voices... screams. I was able to identify four of me captors afterward. None of them me sgàil."

"Sgàil?" Darien repeated, aware that he'd mangled the word.

She snorted and looked at him. "Sgàil," she enunciated precisely. "It's Gaelic for... ghost. He was the leader of their little band of ne'er-do-wells. They called 'im 'Tor'." Her eyes lost focus, even though she continued gazing in his direction. "'Im I don' remember much of. Mostly 'is voice and 'is eyes. They was a brilliant blue. Lovely, but cold. I don' think 'e cared for nothing but 'iself. I saw me death in those eyes." She blinked, once again in the here and now. "Pair of eyes don' 'elp much to catch a fella."

"He wasn't caught?" Darien didn't even bother to try and hide his shock.

"The only one who wasn't," she confirmed. "T'others wouldn't give 'im up and the authorities weren't able to identify 'im. S'why 'e's me sgàil."

"So how'd you get away?" It was the next logical question.

"I din'. Was too bad 'urt to move much. No bleeding way I could walk. It weren't the cops neither. Me family came an' got me. Somehow, they tracked down where I was being held and got the drop on 'em. Aside from the sgàil, only one survived." Her tone was detached as she spoke. "They killed anyone in their way. Slaughtered 'em, really. The whole thing was over in less than 10 minutes. While the _authorities_ still had their thumbs up their arses." She chuckled for an instant. "'Cept for Seamus, who helped. In an unofficial capacity, a'course."

"Of course," Darien agreed, flabbergasted. He couldn't imagine his family going to such lengths for him. No, they'd be far more likely to shrug and consider it a relief that he was no longer their problem. He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted in the chair; he'd been sitting in one position for far too long. "Your family didn't get into any... uh, trouble?"

She turned a dangerous smile on him. "No evidence, least not once it'd been melted down, and excellent alibis. 'Sides plenty of people felt they'd done 'em a service by getting rid of those fecking bastards."

"Melted down? They melted the guns?"

"Who says they used guns?" she retorted. "Me family makes _weapons_ and 'ave for nigh onto 1000 years. Do ya really think we don' know 'ow to use 'em, as well?"

The question may have been rhetorical, but Darien swallowed hard in reaction all the same, especially with the armory decorating the room he was in. "Remind me to never piss off your family, 'kay?"

She giggled. "I doubt ye need to worry 'bout that." Her hands came up to cover her face as she struggled to keep the sudden burst of amusement from shifting over to the hysterical. It took her a few minutes for her to regain control, but eventually her hands dropped away to reveal little more then reddened eyes. "Sorry."

Darien shook his head. "Don't be. I... Anything I say'll just sound trite," he used the word intentionally, "but I do understand."

She straightened, her tone accusatory. "'Ow could ye possibly... Oh, your brother. But that's not quite the same, now is it? You just 'ad to bury 'im."

"Fallon," his first use of her name, and he liked the way it rolled so nice and neatly off his tongue, "Kevin was shot, died in my arms, after pushing me out of the way."

"What? How?" she asked and Darien stiffened as warning bells went off in the back of his alcohol soaked cranium. She raised a hand. "I'm not looking for state secrets 'ere. This is personal, not business. Generalities will do."

_'Trust works both ways.'_ Words from not so long ago that were still valid after all this time. Fallon had trusted him, let him into her home when her guard was lowered, if not down completely, at the very least he could grant her the same. Still, he made sure to choose his words carefully so as to not give away anything he knew would get him into hot water at work.

"The project," she already knew about it, if only in a vague way, "Kevin was working on was infiltrated by a man going by the name Arnaud de Thiel. He tried to take the files by force and killed everyone there, 'cept me."

"Bugger," she hissed, sympathy lacing the syllables. "De Thiel, sounds familiar."

"He also goes by de Ferhn or..."

She snapped her fingers. "The Phone. Knew I recognized the name."

"You know him?" Darien just barely kept his seat, wanting to grab her and shake her in hopes information would fall from her lips.

"I know _of_ 'im. Grand schemes that implode, more often than not and with as high a casualty rate among his own people as his unlucky targets." All this was said with a decided air of distaste that implied she wasn't very impressed with Arnaud no matter how many 'most wanted' lists he was on. "'E's been a busy boy as of late."

_'Crap.'_ Was she saying that she knew what Arnaud was up to right now? That she _knew _where he was? All thoughts of Papadopoulos vanished from Darien's mind as the opportunity to find the rat bastard Arnaud was handed to him on silver platter. If there was ever a time he wanted to take advantage of a woman who was drunk off her ass, this was it. However, he waited just one second too long. "Fallon..."

She pushed herself to her feet with a deliberation that was almost painful to watch. "This 'as been fun, but it's time to get on with the traditional end to this... celebration."

"And that would be...?" Okay, he was willing to play the straight man to get to her punch line.

"'Eading to the jacks to vomit and pass out." She stepped about the sofa and headed for the depths of the apartment. Not staggering, he couldn't even picture that, but doing that over steady walk people who knew they were way beyond plastered did. She was halfway down the hall, before he levered himself upright to trail after her. The partially open door at the end of the hallway revealed a bathroom done in varying shades of blue tile and about half of a white pedestal sink.

She swung the door shut, but it failed to close completely, leaving a gap just large enough for a strip of light to hit the wall, and allowing the sounds of passenger riding the porcelain bus to escape the confines of the bathroom. He waffled for a few minutes on the merits of doing what he could to assist, but decided against for two reasons. One: while it may have been an interesting couple of hours, he seriously doubted she'd want him butting in on this rather private moment, and two: there was a 50/50 chance the contents of his stomach would try to join hers if he stepped in that room right now.

So, he waited, noting the doors on either side of the hall, one of which must be her bedroom. After 10 minutes had passed, there was the sound of flushing, followed by running water, then silence. He allowed a couple more minutes to slide by before rapping lightly on the door.

"Fallon?"

The only response was an unintelligible mumble from within, so he cautiously opened the door. The first thing he saw was her bare feet, toes facing away from him. He poked his head all the way in to find her curled up on her right side, hands tucked under her head as a makeshift pillow, which made it plain that she'd done this before. He sighed and shook his head. There was no way he was just going to let her sleep on the bathroom floor when he could move her to her bed without too much effort on his part.

As he squatted down next to her, her noticed that her shirt had rucked up, revealing those scars she'd mentioned. He wasn't sure what he had expected, hadn't really tried to imagine the kind of damage had been done to her and, looking at it now, he knew anything he'd conjured up wouldn't have been close. The swath he could see was only about four inches wide, but curved her around her side all the way to her spine. Burn tissue, most likely, not that he'd seen many people with extensive burn damage. There had been Mai-Lin, of course, but her injuries had been comparatively recent, red, raw, and without the benefits of time to soften them. Though in truth, from what he could see, Fallon's scarring looked worse, as if the damage had gone far beyond the superficial. It caused her flesh to look... The only thing he could think of was melted. Like candle wax running down the outside of wine bottles in a cheesy Italian restaurant, only inverted. The flesh indented instead of pushed outwards. And that wasn't all; there were also obvious surgical scars and irregular pockmarks that he guessed were from shrapnel.

Shoulder to thigh, she'd said. If it was this severe everywhere, it was no wonder the doctor's had been amazed that she survived; he certainly was. He reached out and gently tugged her shirt back into place, then slid his arms under her with every intention of carrying her to bed, but as he began to lift her she muttered, "I can walk."

"Stagger, you mean." All the same, he lowered her feet to the floor, not surprised that she could indeed support her own weight. "Come on."

"I s'pose," she agreed, taking the first step under her own power, but with Darien prepared to catch her if she faltered. He was pretty certain she wouldn't be able to walk any distance on her own; she was only semi-conscious at best.

Darien did a mental eeny-meeny-miney-moe, chose the door to the right, and was rewarded with a bedroom.

Fallon stumbled to a halt and grumbled, "Ach, you're gonna make me pay for this, now ain't ye?"

He couldn't help but be tempted, to lay claim to some favor to be paid in the future, especially knowing what she could give him if he but asked, yet he heard himself saying, "No worries." He got her moving again towards the king-sized sleigh bed that dominated the room. There wasn't much else; a bureau, a floor lamp she'd probably designed, based on the metalwork, and a full-length mirror leaning in one corner. The room was sadly barren, lacking anything that would make it a home. Maybe she just hadn't been here long enough to unpack personal items? Somehow, he suspected it was something else entirely.

He debated turning down the bed, which was neatly made, but the fact that he wasn't about to undress her, and the light blanket lying on the footboard, convinced him she'd be more comfortable atop the comforter instead of under. It wasn't as if she was going to freeze to death, after all. "Here you go."

Instead of lying down, she turned her head to gaze up at him. "Why're ye doin' this?"

He gave her a gentle push to encourage her, and she collapsed in a barely controlled manner onto the bed, curling right back up with hands tucked under the pillows, this time. He dragged the blanket up over her and then ran a hand through his hair before answering. "'Cause it's the right thing to do," he finally told her.

She blinked blearily up at him, plainly not getting it in her current pickled condition. He saved her the need to comment.

"Get some sleep." She didn't argue, her eyes drifting shut, the remaining alcohol and emotional overload overriding any potential resistance on her part. He watched her for a few minutes, still uncertain why she had allowed him to see her in what was surely a moment of weakness. Once convinced she was asleep, he turned to leave, but just as he was about to pass through the doorway her voice stopped him.

"Darien..."

"Yeah." Her saying his name had mysteriously caused his heart to jump, and _not_ out of surprise.

"Thank ye."

He didn't doubt her sincerity for an instant. "You're welcome."

The response was an unintelligible mumble that made him smile.

It was time to go home.


	4. Chapter 4

---

_"These days, the wages of sin depend on what kind of deal you make with the devil." Thing is, there are days I'm not sure if I'm the one playing the part of a modern day Faust or the dude with the pitchfork and pointy tail. _

---

Another day, another useless meeting. The headache that was pounding throughout Darien's skull really made him wish Claire had not banished him from work yesterday, or alternately, had granted him a second recovery day. Being shocked sober was not effective in avoiding a hangover, and that Irish jet-fuel he had imbibed in the evening before had left him with a doozy.

Bobby, on the other hand, was raring to go, the exhaustion wiped away by sleep and other 'recreational' activities. Darien was willing to bet that neither his partner nor his Keeper had gotten the regulation eight hours last night. He forced himself not to grin and show he wasn't paying attention to the recap of yesterday's useless efforts by Coolley and Henderson. Instead, he wondered if the couple - Bobby and Claire, not Coolley and Henderson - had even made it to the bedroom before... coupling.

_'Sometimes they even do it on the kitchen table.'_ That phrase, spoken by himself to Bobby quite a while back, caused a titillating image of the pair, sweat drenched, and very in flagrante delicto, to flash in his mind. "Man, I need to get laid," he muttered darkly under his breath.

"Care to share with the rest of the class, Darien?" The Official was doing _that_ look. The one that meant he knew Darien had wandered off mentally and hadn't been paying a lick'a attention.

"Ah, no sir." He tried to sound contrite, but realized, too late, that the 'sir' had overdone it.

The Official harrumphed and narrowed his eyes, but left it at that. "Eberts."

"Yes, sir. We have a new addition to the list," Eberts began, folder in his hands and giving Darien flashbacks to countless other meetings.

"Who, Eberts." From Hobbes it was a demand, a sneering one with the way he stretched out Eberts' name, admittedly, but a demand all the same.

"Tormond Westgaard. Believed to be of Norwegian descent." Eberts rifled through the pages, probably looking for something of value to tell them to make it seem like they weren't heading out on another wild goose chase. "His modus operandi is to 'join' a known group and create a splinter cell, which he then uses to initiate a series of terrorist attacks in the name of the main group. The incidents typically culminate in a spectacular demonstration - they've ranged from explosions to mass poisonings - and then he vanishes, leaving the remaining members of the cell to take the fall. He's been involved with the IRA, ETA, Free Quebec Militia, November 17, Red Brigade, and Combat 18, among others."

"IRA?" Darien repeated.

"Yes," Eberts confirmed with a glance at the page.

"When? And where, if you have it." He - they - couldn't have lucked out and had the perfect info fall right into their laps. It'd be too clichéd. But then again, these days his whole life was one huge cliché.

"1989. Londonderry. Why?" Eberts asked in honest curiosity.

"Yeah, why?" Hobbes echoed, his tone making it clear he _knew_ Darien had something up his sleeve as he turned to stare at his partner's profile.

Darien had to fight to not squirm under the sudden scrutiny. "Got pics?" he asked, ignoring the question for the moment.

"No," the Official answered, "and descriptions of the man are completely contradictory."

Eberts added, "However, by all accounts he has blue eyes. Apparently, his most memorable feature."

_'Bingo_. It was looking like the Imp of the Perverse had gone on vacation and Lady Luck had decided to drop by for a spell. Hobbes proceeded to toss a bucket of ice water on Darien's hopes.

"Wait a second there; if you can't identify him by sight, how do you know he's in town?" There was a supercilious sneer on Hobbes' face as he leaned back in the chair, hands folded atop his belt buckle.

"Because these two men," Eberts held up a pair of pictures with Interpol stamped across the bottom, "_have_ been spotted. And where they are..."

"Mr. Westgaard is," the Official finished. "The man is ghost by all accounts. No one, and I do mean _no_ one, has ever gotten a picture of him."

"Sgàil," Darien muttered softly. Plainly, Fallon hadn't made the connection to 'Tor's' bully-boys or she'd've found him long ago. That was making the bold assumption that her 'Tor' and this Tormond were indeed the same person. "Any chance there's nicknames for him in that file?"

Eberts skimmed through the pages and nodded in confirmation. "Several, including Thor, Tor and Torrie. All variations of his first name."

Hobbes snickered disdainfully. "Torrie. Chick musta thought that one up."

"Oh really, _Hobbesy_?" Darien questioned with glee in his voice.

"Look who's talking there, _Fawkesy_," Hobbes came right back with.

Darien chuckled softly, stood, and walked over to Eberts. "Can I get a copy of this?"

Eberts deferred to the Official, who nodded slightly, then handed the file to Darien.

"Why do you want it?" the Official asked.

"This," Darien tapped the folder, "should get us what we need on Papadopoulos."

---

Hobbes' Fawkes-has-gotten-himself-into-something warning lights had gone off the instant his idiot partner had said the Westgaard intel would get them the info they needed on Papadopoulos. No one had believed his partner, though Fawkes had insisted they'd be able to trade for it, which, of course, meant going back to the monkey house, or whatever it was called, and dealing with Fallon O'Neill. Alarm bells had joined the flashing lights when Fawkes had dodged every attempt to ascertain _how_ he knew the file would do it. He just kept saying he'd done more than _sleep_, on his day off.

The Official might have bought the line, if grudgingly, but Hobbes knew that when Fawkes started giving those one word answers there was trouble ahead. His sneak-thief of a partner was up to something and _that _was never a good thing.

Once alone in Golda, heading to O'Neill's little shop of mercenary heaven, Hobbes again tried to pry what the hell was going on out of Fawkes, thinking that he'd be willing to spill it now that the Official wasn't around to overhear. Annoyingly, he was met with the same lack of success he'd had earlier, during their briefing. Fawkes might not be able to lie worth a damn, but he was perfectly capable of keeping his trap shut when necessity dictated. _Why_ he thought it was a necessity right now was beyond Hobbes.

They were able to snag a spot right in front of the store this time and, with the file tucked under Fawkes' arm, they headed in. He was looking way too comfortable for Hobbes' taste and this was the last place he wanted Fawkes to be feeling at home. Way too many temptations for the not entirely reformed ex-con.

This time the smooth-talking suit guy - blue today with faint pin striping that Hobbes likened to that of a '30's gangster - was waiting in the showroom, almost as if he'd been expecting them, which he shouldn't have as they hadn't called ahead to set up an appointment. O'Neill _had_ said to stop by anytime. And _that_ made Hobbes wonder exactly how good her network was, because it wasn't the kind of coincidence he liked. The suit didn't even get a chance to begin his preamble before Fawkes dove in head first, taking the lead in this little bargaining session.

"We want to make a deal," was all his partner said, but it was more than enough to get the guy's attention. His ears perked right up, like the Keeper's pooch when Hobbes offered him one'a his treats.

With an airy wave that had Hobbes wondering if it was a signal for some hidden camera, the suit led them through the same door as last time, but instead of taking them to her office, they turned a corner and picked up Murphy, confirming Hobbes' suspicion that they were being watched.

They went through another door and into a far more utilitarian area of the building. These were the real offices, not the sound-proofed, client-friendly spaciousness they'd been escorted to before. _This_ is where the real work got done, though he didn't really want to speculate on what was that work was. He might be forced to arrest their only potential source of information on Papadopoulos, whether or not O'Neill was on some government 'hands-off' list. A deep thrumming accompanied by a heart-pounding metallic clang was coming from somewhere on the far side of the twin doors that barred the way ahead. Sliding doors, based on the seam running up the middle of them, made of a heavy gun-metal gray steel that was about as plain and unadorned as you could get and, Hobbes was willing to bet, bulletproof and maybe even bombproof, to boot. Murphy slid them open, a blast of heat surging through as Hobbes got his first look at O'Neill's workshop.

'Not bulletproof... fireproof.' Looked like Eberts' intel was dead on; the place looked like a modern day torture chamber. Hot coals in the giant open furnace off to the left, complete with the pokers sticking out; ready to be used against tender flesh. Men in nothing more than shorts and leather aprons with sweat and dirt smudged on their faces and upper bodies. The scent of heated copper mimicked the tang of fresh blood in the air, which made his stomach twist into unexpected knots. The only thing missing were the screams of pain from the poor souls being tortured to their doom. Although, the pounding music that blasted from unseen speakers was an adequate substitute. 

The clang that could be heard over it all, yet matching the music beat for beat, was coming from the mistress of this dungeonesque chamber herself - Fallon O'Neill. She was leaning over a huge... anvil he guessed, or whatever they were called these days, with some piece of metal glowing a dark red held in place with one hand, a hammer or mallet in the other, which came down to make contact, sending sparks flying with every bone-rattling _clang_.

Murphy waited until they were the rest of the way in the room and shut the door, turned to Fawkes, and all but shouted, "Wait 'ere." It was clearly an order and he was smart enough not to argue, not that anything could be heard over the noise. That was if he had any interest in responding, which wasn't likely since his eyes were glued on O'Neill, sizing her up like a drunk without a penny to his name ogling the merchandise in a liquor store window.

_'Oh, that's just perfect.'_ It was looking like Hobbes' pronouncement to Claire had more truth behind it than even he'd known, though Fawkes going ahead and falling for a merc was about the worst possible choice he could make, and yet... typical Fawkes.

The rhythmic ringing stilled, the bass beat continuing without the bell-like accompaniment, as Hobbes watched Murphy tip his head down to speak directly into O'Neill's ear. She said something in reply, set the mallet-thing down on a nearby bench, and then lifted what turned out to be a rough double axe blade with the economy-sized tongs she'd been using to hold it in place as she pounded on it. She dunked it into a trough of water behind her, steam rising into the air instantly and obscuring her for several seconds. By the time it had cleared, some other mook had taken her place to deal with the half-formed weapon and she was lifting the protective apron over her head.

The suit-guy that had stuck around to baby-sit them - Hobbes was gonna have to ask his name if visiting here was going to become a regular occurrence - handed O'Neill a towel as she approached. She was sweaty and dirty, just like he'd expect after being fed a steady diet of Hollywood depictions of working near a forge.

He figured she'd head back through the heavy-duty door and to her office, but she instead gave a slight nod with her head and led the way to a room right off the workshop. The cacophony ceased as soon as Murphy shut the door. It appeared to be a conference room, not as luxuriously appointed as her office, but not shabby either, and plainly not the _employee_ room. No this place was all about business, which she proved by circling around the table that could easily and comfortably seat 20 to retrieve a slim laptop that she carried back with her and set down as she leaned back against the dark wood.

"Anything you need, boss?" suit-guy asked.

"Water, Stevie," O'Neill replied, revealing the name of the guy. Hobbes filed that away as the man left the room to fetch the requested drink. She rubbed her face with the towel, removing the majority of the grime, her hair still sweat-damp and sticking out at odd angles, before turning those disarming eyes on first Hobbes then Darien, gazing at them warily. "What're ye offering?"

Cut right to the heart of the matter, didn't she? Probably just as well, given the situation, not to mention the rate at which sand was running out of the hourglass.

That was Fawkes' cue to speak up; "Information on one Tormond Westgaard."

If the name rang a bell for her, Hobbes couldn't see it.

"He likes playing god in established terrorist groups." Fawkes lifted the file to emphasize his words. "One of his early adventures involved the IRA in 1989."

_That_ got her attention, but it was so subtle that Hobbes almost missed it. A slight shiver ran through her body that, admittedly, could have meant she was chilled in the air conditioned heaven after the hell-like heat in the workshop, but the timing was too coincidental. Looked like his crazy-ass partner was onto something, here.

"What do ye want in exchange?" She played it cool as a cucumber, but stared right at Fawkes, and he was looking... Hobbes expected smug, but it was more like guilt. As if he was thinking he was taking advantage of her or something, which shouldn't have been possible based on her rep... and therefore set Hobbes' Fawkes alarms off yet again. What _was_ it with Fawkes and the chicks on their cases?

"Info on Aristid Papadopoulos. Where he is and what he's planning," Hobbes said before Fawkes could get a word in edgewise and screw it up.

Fallon instantly agreed, "Done," and held her hand out.

Fawkes shot an irritated glare at Hobbes, but dutifully handed over the file. Fallon didn't even glance at the contents, just spun about, and leaned across the table to drag the fancy phone within easier reach. She pressed a single button of the seeming hundreds there. "Nikki," was all she said.

Darien sidled further into the room, away from the table and towards the huge glass window that overlooked the foundry. He'd buried his hands in his back pockets, twisted his head for a couple seconds, and then let his shoulders drop about six inches as he slouched in place. A sure sign he was upset about something. Most likely Hobbes butting in and stating what they wanted in return. But, come on, like some greenhorn punk would have any clue on bargaining with the likes of O'Neill? No way in hell he was gonna fall into the same trap she'd suckered them into last time. Learning from past mistakes and all that. Fawkes would just have to grow up and deal.

A momentary blast of sound heralded the return of Stevie with pricey bottled water for his boss. "It's a special glass," Stevie said in Fawkes' direction. "High strength and uniquely soundproof. If you notice, it's slightly concave from this side. Helps to reflect the sound away."

Hobbes blinked. When did they make the A-list for useless trivia in O'Neill's house? A'course, that led him right back to how Fawkes had known the file would get them in the door, and, better yet, what his _partner _had been doing on his day off. Plainly, Hobbes had been spending way too much time playing bed games with the Keep and not enough time keeping a weather eye on Fawkes. That realization caused more than just twinge of guilt to smack Hobbes upside the head. Yeah, he knew Fawkes was... lonely, it was a regular topic of conversation between the Keep, Monroe and Hobbes lately, but not a single one'a them had come up with a solid solution to the problem. He'd forgotten the golden rule - never bail on your partner... even for a dame. And left to his own devices, the devil only knew what kind of trouble Fawkes was getting himself into. When all this was over, he'd be owing Darien a huge apology and, more importantly, some of his time.

The conference door opened again, this time admitting a kid of about 20, who had 'geek' practically stenciled across his forehead, along with a blast of raucous music. O'Neill was in front of him in a flash, file in hand.

"Nikki, get this downstairs and into the database." She gave him the folder and tapped it lightly. "Cross reference with the Aristid Papadopoulos info."

Nikki glanced down at the quarter-inch thick file and then back at Fallon. "That's going to take a while."

She shook her head. "Start with the most recent info - that's what'll tie to Aristid - and work back from there."

Nikki nodded. "Can do. Figure... three hours minimum," he told her.

"Ye've got one. Start with the basics, fill me in as ye get more." Fallon glanced over at Fawkes, who was wearing an inscrutable expression. "I've the feeling we need to 'urry on this one."

The geek asked, "Bonuses?"

O'Neill's lip twitched upwards, as if fighting a smile. "Possibly," she finally answered.

That got a huge grin from Nikki. "Rush job it is, boss."

By the time the door shut, Fallon had downed half the water and was typing one handed on her computer. There was no mouse, just one'a those touch pads below the keyboard. "Bloody 'ell," she muttered. "Stevie, reschedule my four o'clock, would ye."

"I can handle it," Stevie told her, cracking the knuckles of one hand. "I've been at all the meetings with Tuturro, it shouldn't be a problem."

"He still owes 'alf," Murphy reminded her.

"'Ave Box join ye," she said. "'E'll make sure things go the way they should. Tuturro still thinks 'e's scarier than me. Ye get to convince 'im 'e's wrong."

"You got it." Stevie headed for the door, but Fallon's softly spoken words stopped him.

"Oh, and Stevie."

"Yeah, boss?"

"Thanks."

Stevie gave her a smile and left the room. Hobbes found the interplay between Fallon and her employees interesting, giving him a hint as to her working dynamic. It was clear she was in charge, but that it wasn't a dictatorship by any means. Most mercenary companies followed a military-style hierarchy, with the person at the top givin' the orders, period, end of story. Plainly, the situation was different here, she was their leader, but not their commander, or so it seemed. Which meant...

Hobbes pondered everything he knew about her (admittedly little), Phoenix (quite a bit, now that he had a need to remember it), and what he'd observed. It was a fair bet that her core 'employees' were her former compatriots from Phoenix and had left when she had. They would be here out of loyalty and would probably stay no matter what the winds of fate dealt them. Tibbett's and therefore Phoenix's rep might have been trashed by the end, but clearly, O'Neill's wasn't. Oh no, it was certainly good enough to bring in new blood like that Nikki-geek and make him bold enough to ask for a bonus up front. That meant she not only paid well, but that bonuses were a regular occurrence.

_'Damn.'_ She sure as hell weren't no ordinary merc, that's for sure. Question was: could he use that knowledge to their advantage?

"So, what have you got for us?" Hobbes moved to stand near the end of the table beside her and she waved for him to sit, which he did. Fawkes was still by the window, but had turned about to lean back against it, rolling his shoulders with a look of discomfort on his face. If Hobbes didn't know better he'd think the kid was on the verge of one'a his headaches, and getting ready to take the next train to nutsoville.

"Every year Athens 'olds a Greek festival that lasts several months," she began.

"Yeah, I've heard of it. Classic Greek plays, orchestras, ballets, all the stuffed grape leaves you can eat, and then some. Sounds pretty cool," Fawkes said in a wistful tone, as if knowing there was little chance he'd ever get to see it for himself. He sauntered over to the table and sat down atop it, staying down at the far end, like he was afraid to come closer.

"Aye, but did ye know Icarius is 'osting a Baccahanalia? Or that just about every person with money or power is planning to attend?" She paused, but their obvious blank looks encouraged her to continue. "The fete is to be 'is apology for what 'is family 'as done over the years."

"Fate? What's she gotta do with this?" Hobbes asked the first question that popped into his mind as he tried to digest the information.

Darien snorted in amusement. "F. E. T. E.," spelling out the word as if this was an episode of _Sesame Street_ and he was Big Bird. "It's like a party, Hobbes."

Hobbes glowered at Fawkes and snarked, "I know what it means, smartass," and turned back to O'Neill. "So, Aristid's gonna try to use this _fete_ to his advantage."

"Aye."

"How? I mean, won't the guests be expecting daddy-dopoulos and not junior?" Fawkes asked, grasping the sole obvious flaw in the plan that Hobbes could see.

O'Neill shrugged. "Probably. Junior, as you call 'im, 'as been acting in 'is da's name for months now. Afore that 'e tried to convince 'im to use the party to rebuild their power." She ran her finger along the track pad and clicked the button, scrolling through information, most likely. "Aristid's playboy delusions were severely curtailed when people stopped fearing retribution by 'is da."

"Okay, gotta ask: why did Icarius want out of the Greek mob business, anyway?" Fawkes sounded confused, and Hobbes realized that the bonehead hadn't read the background info they'd received when they'd been given this assignment.

O'Neill seemed to find the question naïve, much like when they'd asked about Icarius on their first visit. "It was his wife, Lyris' dying request."

Understanding dawned on Fawkes' face and it was struggle for Hobbes to not laugh out loud at his partner's sudden discomfiture. It was his own frickin' fault. Yeah, the meetings could get tedious, but there was reason for 'em. Point proven right here.

"What's he planning to do, then?" Hobbes leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the table-top in anticipation of her answer. This was the important part, and would give them a better idea of who Aristid was trying to buy from. Narrow the field a bit. That's if O'Neill didn't already know.

"Not entirely sure," she said, dashing his hopes. "Either a slow acting poison or virus to which only 'e 'as the antidote."

Fawkes shook his head, looking down at the carpet between his white sneakers. "And to get the cure, they have to meet his demands. One hell of a scam."

"Aye, 'tis," she agreed. "And ye'd be one who knows, after all."

Fawkes went oddly still at that comment, which had been delivered in a sardonic tone that couldn't be missed. The vibes Hobbes was getting off the two of them were just plain weird. Damn it. Maybe his idiot partner had made another trade on the side? Like for the info she'd wanted their first go 'round? Hobbes could only hope Fawkes hadn't been so stupid as to give her his file just to make this case. No way. The Official would arrange a down and dirty harvesting party without a second thought, which would force Hobbes to do something drastic, which would then make Claire _very_ unhappy... And here he thought Fawkes had been cured of his terminal case of stupidity after working with the Feds. Hobbes forced himself to stop and take a calm, relaxing breath, just like his shrink had taught him to do when he caught himself getting all worked up. Later. He'd chew Fawkes' ass off when they were alone and there were no witnesses.

Hobbes asked, "How's he gonna introduce it? Airborne's too risky, might not get the ones he wants."

"Best guess?" she asked, and Hobbes nodded. "Either the wine or the olive oil. Both are being supplied from the family stores."

"Which lets him control the situation. Damn." Hobbes stood up, rubbing his forehead, and began pacing the length of the room. "Any chance you have someone on the inside, on his island?"

"Not now," was her reply, which Hobbes found _very_ interesting. It clearly suggested that she'd had someone inside at one point in time. Was that how she'd known Papadopoulos was dead? How she'd gotten the GPS info? He could only wonder who else she was watching up close and personal-like.

"We have to stop it at this end, before he makes the buy. Once he's back in Greece..." Hobbes began, then trailed off, pacing restlessly.

"It'll be too late," Fawkes finished his thought, frowning. "Where's he hiding out?"

O'Neill glanced down at the screen. "Hotel del Coronado. The Beach House."

Finally, something they could work with. "I'll arrange to have him picked up," Hobbes said, as he pulled out his cell phone from his inner coat pocket.

"On what charges," she asked casually. Too casually, and Hobbes snapped the phone shut before halfway through dialing.

"Illegal entry into the U.S.," Hobbes stated. "We know he didn't use _his_ passport to get through Customs."

"Ye probably be right, but I can guarantee he'll 'ave 'is real one on 'and with all the proper documentation." O'Neill leaned back in her chair, looking smug.

Darien finally spoke up, "Okay, I'll bite; how?"

Hobbes silently thanked Fawkes for his willingness to take the hit on this one.

"Come on now, it don't cost all that much to buy a passport these days, or to get an extra one or two stamped by a Customs official." She gave them a dangerous grin. "I can get ye some price quotes if ye like."

Hobbes and Fawkes exchanged a look. _'Crap. Crap. And triple-crap.'_ "Ah, not now, but I'll keep it in mind." Hobbes sank back down into the chair. "Do you know if he's meeting anyone?"

"Aye."

"Do you know when and where?"

"Aye."

"Care to tell us?" Darien was watching her carefully.

"On one condition."

Hobbes groaned. "We paid you for this info."

"Nay, ye didn'," she countered. "In exchange for the file on Tormond Westgaard ye requested 'info on Aristid Papadopoulos. Where 'e is and what 'e's planning.'" she quoted from memory. "And_ that,_ Agent Hobbes, I 'ave given ye."

Darien laughed out loud. "You went and left a loophole, Hobbesy." He shoved himself upright and stalked towards her. "What do you want?"

She tipped her head up to gaze at him. "If, and I do mean _if_, Aristid is meeting this Tormond, I want in."

Hobbes closed his eyes for a long moment, not quite sure he'd heard her correctly, but the mental replay didn't change. "Why?"

She shook her head. "I 'ave me reasons. Do we 'ave a deal?"

"What if he's _not _meeting Tormond?" Darien questioned.

"Then ye get the meet info free and clear," she replied without hesitation, which told Hobbes... something, he just wasn't entirely sure what. He looked from one to the to the other, that weird vibe thing was happening again and he was liking it less and less. Plainly, his partner had indeed done more than _sleep_ on his day off, and it had involved _Miss_ _O'Neill_ in some way. It was the only explanation that made any sense. How else would he get an inside track on her? It musta been something damn impressive for her to be willing to practically give away info she could make them pay for.

"Deal," Fawkes said.

"Fawkes," Hobbes squawked. "You can't..."

"I can, Hobbes." Darien met Hobbes' eyes without flinching. "I did."

"Crap. Then you're the one who's gotta convince the Chief, and he _ain't_ gonna be happy." Hobbes was more than willing to let Fawkes hoist himself by his own petard. Maybe it'd teach him a lesson on cutting deals with the devil, no matter how bad he might want to get into her pants.

"Gentlemen, if ye give me 30 minutes to get cleaned up, I'll be ready to go."

"Go?" Darien repeated. "Go where?"

"To the Agency, a'course. The info is being compiled as we speak, I'll need to do this in real-time. Unless ye'd rather wait another day or two." And with that bombshell, she closed the laptop.


	5. Chapter 5

---

"You sure this is the place?" Murphy asked for the third time as he swung open the door proudly proclaiming that Fish & Game had offices on the second and fourth floors; while HUD Document Disposal Control was housed on the third and fifth. That might be the space those agencies _officially_ claimed, but she knew who the real resident was and who was in charge of it.

"Aye," she answered with a grin. "Don't let the stunningly modern exterior fool ye," her voice dripped with sarcasm as they headed for the reception desk in the miniscule foyer. The interior décor, which was step below that of the exterior, caused Murphy to hiss through clenched teeth.

"Fallon, are you sure about this? We don't need 'em." Murphy's voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough to make her grab him by the shoulder holster and drag him over to one side.

"Are ye questioning me judgment?"

"Aye. It's part of the job description, remember?"

"Ye chose that job, not me. Can't 'spect me to make it easy for ye," she shot back with a hint of a smile under the irritation. She just wished he had decided to voice his opinion _before_ they'd arrived, 'cause now it was way too fecking late. "Murphy, I don' 'ave time to explain this to ye now, so you're jus' gonna 'ave to trust me on this one."

Murphy crossed his arms over his broad chest and stared down at her, like a parent who knows his five-year-old is hiding something. Only she wasn't five and they both knew it. "Is this about _him_?"

The emphasis on "him" let Fallon know Murphy was referring to her sgàil and _not_ Darien Fawkes, though the latter had been the main topic of conversation all morning. She'd been too bleeding hung-over to get downstairs and remove the incriminating evidence from the security system before Nikki had shown up for work. Not that there was much to see; just Fawkes breaking in and her bolloxed ass inviting him upstairs. The cameras ended at the stairwell. If anyone made it that far into the building without setting off an alarm, they were welcome to anything they could lay their hands on. What had happened after she and Fawkes were out of the camera's view was no one's business but theirs, and her guys were very careful to not cross that line of gentle teasing to wild speculation.

She, much as Murphy had surmised at their last visit, had expected the agents to return to bargain, but _not_ with the information they had ultimately offered in trade. When Fawkes had teased the file's contents - like a pro - she'd been caught between two conflicting emotions: kiss him or kill him. Neither of which would have been taken very well by Agent Hobbes. _'Bugger it.'_ She still wasn't sure what to do. When she'd said personal, she'd meant exactly that, even if he'd told her something that could have netted her a hefty paycheck, she'd've kept it to herself. Not that she could expect Fawkes to follow her honor code, right?

It was her own bleeding fault. She'd known Fawkes was a con-man, so it wasn't all that surprising that he'd learned about her annual piss up and used it to his... to the Agency's advantage. She hadn't been played that well since little John-boy in Montreal. On that occasion, she'd let the drama continue to unfold even after she'd learned his true interest in her. By the time she'd called him on it, he'd let out more than enough rope to hang himself. A'course it hadn't hurt that he was a damn fine looking man and heaven on earth between the sheets.

The fact that she'd let Fawkes' good looks and seeming naïveté sway her, gee-eyed, or not, just pissed her off even more. If it weren't for the fact that this might - _might_ - get her one step closer to Tor, she'd have handed over the meet info and sent them on their merry way with a goodbye and good riddance. Instead, she was standing in this crappy lobby, hoping like hell she could hold her temper long enough to get through the meeting and not throttle Fawkes for doing his bloody job better than she had expected.

"And if it is?" she finally answered, her tone as neutral as she could manage.

He nodded slowly. "Then there's no point in questioning your judgment. You ain't got none where he's concerned."

"Hey," she poked him in the chest with one finger, "I know enough to not go chasing wild geese," she countered. Murphy had learned long ago that even he could only do so much to protect her, especially from herself. "Rule number 10."

"Listen to your gut, but think with your head," Murphy growled. "Awright, no more arguments from me."

"Why 'ow sweet of ye," she dimpled at him, "considering I'm your boss."

He snorted and stepped aside to allow her by, as they still needed to get this farce started. The reception area had acquired a pair of matching bookends during their little chat. Two agents were doing their best impression of dangerous and failing miserably in her opinion. It took a lot more than enigmatic looks and pointedly revealed weapons to get her all shivery inside. Now, an authentic eleventh century claymore had been known to make her go weak in the knees on occasion. Not many men could withstand the comparison to six feet of hand-forged steel.

She ignored the pair of plonkers and strode over to the reception desk with Murphy just a step behind, guarding her back like always.

"Can I help you?" the woman behind the curved desk asked primly, as if she wasn't the one to call down the reinforcements when she spotted Murphy's Glock.

"Me name's Fallon O'Neill. The Official is expecting me."

"I'm sorry, Miss..."

"O'Neill," Fallon supplied.

"Hmm, yes, but there's no one here by that name," the receptionist stated in snotty tone that Fallon didn't care for in the least. Luckily, she'd long ago schooled herself to not slap silly eejits who pushed her annoyance buttons.

"Really. So, these bully-boys 'ere work for Fish & Game? Or maybe HUD?" Fallon wasn't in the mood for the mandatory runaround.

"Ma'am, there's no one here..."

"By that name," Fallon finished, ignoring the rolled eyes aimed in her direction. "Well, then ye can be the one to explain to 'im jus' why 'is case is going nowhere fast. Murphy." She snapped about and headed straight to the door without a backwards glance, all the while counting slowly in her head.

At eight Miss Prim & Proper squawked, "Wait."

Fallon paused, the exit just an arms length away, and for a heartbeat she wanted nothing more than to walk through the door and never look back, never see anyone from this Agency ever again. Then the moment passed and she found herself asking, "Why?"

"I'll escort you up," the voice was male and inducement enough to urge Fallon to turn around and eye the pair of agents. "But he has to stay here." A slight nod in Murphy's direction was added for emphasis.

"Divide and conquer, is that it?" Murphy began, his temper flaring to life.

Fallon brought him up short with a word, "Agreed."

"Boss," Murphy growled, "I don't trust these blighters."

"An' ye think I do?" she sniped. "I simply trust the non-existent Official 'as more interest in solving 'is case than trying to outmaneuver me. My info, we do things my way. When the roles are reversed 'e can call the shots." As she watched the bookends, the one on the right tipped his head in acknowledgement of her statement. Looked like one a'em had some inkling of how the game was really played.

Murphy frowned, plainly not liking the set up, which was as it should be. "Awright, but if they try anything..."

"You'll come in, guns blazing?" she suggested sardonically. "They won't. Now behave." That earned her a dark look, but no commentary. He knew when it was time to back down and actually take orders. She joined the Agency's finest for her escort to the Official. The one who had spoken to her stepping aside, his partner plainly intended to stick around and keep an eye on Murphy. Her boy wouldn't cause a bit of trouble, but he'd be chafing at not being by her side. He took his job _very_ seriously, that one did.

She was given a lovely tour of a dingy stairwell and dingier hallways that even the bright morning sunlight admitted through open windows could do nothing to improve. It was a sad state for an agency touted to be one of the better ones for spotting and preventing covert activities from every odd corner of the country. She might not be living as classy as she could be, but it was her choice. Baggage was never a good thing when you had to cut and run on short notice.

She could hear raised voices arguing, which got progressively louder as they neared the end of the hallway. Her escort stopped before a door with nothing more than the number 202 on the opaque glass and swung it open for her to enter.

She stepped into a minefield.

Agents Fawkes and Hobbes were having themselves a wee bit of a disagreement. They were on opposite sides of the conference table that filled the center of the room, Fawkes was glowering at his partner who slammed his palm onto the surface of the table and shouted, "Damn it, Fawkes, I want a straight answer."

The response was a snort of derision. "You ain't believed a word I've said so far, but to repeat: I slept, I did laundry, I went out and had a couple of drinks and that's it." The words were carefully bitten off and the tone oddly condescending.

Fallon also found the statement interesting, as it totally left out his visit to her place for that inside information he had wielded so very well. However, it wasn't Hobbes that she watched for a reaction, but the pair across the room from her. The Official sat behind his desk, his bulk surely testing the springs of the chair he was relaxed comfortably in. Behind and to his right stood the esteemed Eberts, former IRS, and as expert at manipulating numbers as the Official was people. Or, so her sources had informed her. Clearly, he'd arranged for her to walk in on this disagreement. Was it a test? To see what she'd put up with to fulfill her end of a deal? Weird, but possible.

"She's nothing but trouble, my friend, and you better stay away from her and her little den of thieves," Hobbes snapped, stabbing a finger in his partner's direction for emphasis.

_'Den of thieves?'_ Fallon wasn't sure if she should be insulted, or what. Okay, so they might not always... make that rarely... use legal means to obtain the data they sold, but _thieves_? Not a chance in hell.

Fawkes went completely still. "You do _not_ get to tell me what to do, _my friend_," his voice icy cold. "If I want to associate with mercenaries, that's_ my _business."

Even Fallon, who wouldn't claim to know either man, could see that Hobbes had pushed it too far, and, though tempted to intercede, held her tongue. In truth, she wouldn't mind Fawkes showing up on her doorstep for something other than Agency business, and next time it wouldn't be a few shorts that she'd be offering him. Oh no, it'd be something far more lucrative for both of them.

Hobbes stood up to his full and not-so-lofty height, shaking his head. "You want it that way, fine. Just don't come crying to me when she finds out you can..."

"Boys, boys," the Official interrupted, cutting off Hobbes' words and leaving Fallon very curious as to what he'd been about to say. "We have a guest."

---

_'A guest? Huh?'_ Darien followed the 'Fish's gaze to see Fallon standing at the far end of the room, impeccably dressed - she cleaned up damn nice - with a messenger bag resting against her left hip and an expression of total indifference on her features. _'Crap.'_ No wonder the Official had interrupted Bobby's snarky comeback, considering what he'd been about to blurt out. That would've been really ironic; Bobby giving away exactly what he was accusing Darien of risking. Though why the Official hadn't ended the shouting match long before she had arrived was a mystery to Darien. Maybe the Fatman behind the curtain _wanted _her to know she was causing divisiveness between the partners? It wasn't as if Darien understood how his boss' mind worked, but he was certain he didn't want to. There were always manipulations within manipulations within manipulations. It was amazing the man kept them all straight. That the Official would use Fallon to his own benefit, or at least try, was to be expected.

"Oh, hey Fallon," Darien greeted, which caused Bobby to fling his hands up dramatically and stalk towards the Official's desk, making it clear where his loyalties lay in this instance.

Much to Darien's surprise, she outright ignored him and focused her attention on the power crushing the throne at the Agency. "Do we 'ave a deal?"

Eberts piped up with, "The Official would like to clear up a few..."

"I wasn't speakin' to ye," Fallon stated, without so much as glancing in his direction, which caused Eberts' mouth to snap shut in shock. She plainly wasn't going to buy the mouthpiece impression Ebes was doing. Why talk to Muhammad when the mountain was right in front of you.

Darien gave a low whistle, impressed with her ability to hold her ground against the juggernaut. This might actually be interesting.

"Fawkes," Bobby growled in warning, which Darien ignored. He'd made his stance on the matter quite clear, and besides, the Official had already agreed to allow Fallon in on the mission, provided there was indeed a connection, of course.

The Official chuckled softly. "Deal."

With that word, Fallon went from statue still to full movement. She walked the length of the room, the messenger bag coming open, and revealing a slim laptop that was probably the same one as earlier. "If I may?"

The Official gave a grandiose wave of his hand, and she had the computer out and set up in seconds. She placed it on the table, then pulled a black ovoid out and connected it to the computer with a cable. The LCD monitor went from the standard Windows start-up screen to a hand drawn monkey with paws clasped before it.

Eberts made a tiny sound and Darien turned to look at him. "'Sup Ebes?" Darien asked, as it wasn't often Eberts' dour expression was exchanged for amusement, which made today a red letter day indeed.

"Sorry. Miss O'Neill's choice of computer doesn't give me much confidence in her information," Eberts answered, a smile very nearly cracking his features as he attempted to maintain a neutral demeanor.

Fallon, fingers flying over the keys as screen after screen flashed by on the desktop, responded in a bored tone, "It may say 'Dell' on the outside, but there's a sight more than 'Intel' on the inside."

Eberts gulped audibly. "You do your own mods?"

"Aye," she mumbled, clearly distracted as she poured over the data being sent to her machine.

"What's with the shiny black Easter egg?" Bobby asked in suspicion.

"It's a signal booster and," she smiled slightly, "scrambler."

That caused Eberts to squeak inarticulately and the Official to mutter, "Eberts," in an attempt to get his lackey back under control. "Miss O'Neill, can we get on with this?"

"A'course." She turned about to face the three men about the desk, leaving Darien with only her profile to observe. "One of the more recent entries in Aristid's PDA includes coordinates, date and time."

Hobbes', "Coordinates," was overrun by Eberts' highly suspicious, "How did you access his PDA?"

Fallon sighed, appearing rather put upon by this point. "Mr. Eberts, it's a wireless system and eminently hackable... if ye know how."

Eberts visibly twitched, and Darien had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "You wrote a hack to break wireless encrypts?"

Fallon shook her head. "Me? Nay. That's what I 'ave employees for."

"But how do they account for the randomization of the encryption signal?" Eberts pressed, clearly not about to let this go until he received a satisfactory answer.

Fallon crossed her arms over her chest and gave Eberts a baleful stare. "Do ye want this info or not?"

Eberts opened his mouth to respond, but a hastily barked, "Shut up, Eberts," by both Hobbes and the Official forestalled the commentary.

She gave a sharp nod and shifted enough to tap a sequence of keys. The colors were washed out due to Darien's crappy angle, and he shifted along the wall so that he could actually _see_ the image. It turned out to be to a high altitude shot of some generic chunk of desert. "The coordinates are for this location. An area approximately five miles southeast of Dulzura."

"Dulzura? That's about 20 miles from here. Not much out there but sand and scrub," Hobbes commented.

"And gold," Darien added, ignoring the evil eye his partner threw his way. Like Hobbes should be surprised. It was _gold_, after all. "Least there used to be."

Fallon nodded in agreement. "It's an old lode mine that dates back to the late 1800s. It is currently owned by Hammer Corp." She zoomed the image in closer, the entrance of the mine now easily visible. Though the angle wasn't all that great, it appeared that the 'door' was large enough for a fair-sized truck to drive through, with a smaller one set into it.

"And who owns the Hammer?" Hobbes asked in the conveniently placed pause.

"One Tormond Westgaard, though that bit of info was a right bugger to track down." Fallon looked right at the Official.

"You can document this?" he challenged.

"Aye. I'll burn ye a copy of the data once this meeting is concluded." That seemed to satisfy the Official

"When's the meet?" Darien asked, wondering how much time they had to pull off a miracle.

"Tomorrow at 1500," she answered. The image zoomed back out slightly, just enough to show that the only way in or out to the mine entrance was down long narrow canyon between what were either high hills or low mountains. The mine was at the apex, which made it simple to defend.

"That's real-time," Eberts suddenly squalled. "How did you...? But the access codes for the satellite..."

Darien paced over to Eberts, who looked ready to blow a gasket, and set a hand on his shoulder. "Down boy. Don't want to hurt yourself, now do ya?" Darien turned to Fallon. "I think he's impressed."

"I got that," was her sardonic reply. "Now, the mine is reportedly played out, gold-wise, but still has a large quantity of quartz that is being mined for commercial use. They've done some major reconstruction internally." She tapped a few keys, sitting on the edge of the table so that she could type, read, and yet still appear to include the rest of the people in the room in the conversation. The image switched from the live overhead shot of the mine and surrounding land, to 3-D schematics of the first few levels buried inside the mountain.

"The two upper levels were retrofitted to house the power-plant and ventilation system." She froze the image on the screen, giving them a profile view of four different levels. "The two main levels, 'ere and 'ere, house the storerooms, bunks, kitchens, offices, etc. The staging area is on the second level, and is where the main shaft and elevator is located." She ran a finger along the track pad to zoom in on the image.

It appeared to Darien that the first level actually overlooked the staging area, like a balcony section. "Where do you think the meet's gonna take place? There?"

Fallon shrugged. "Most likely. It's open and allows both to show their strength. 'Sides, the rest is all a labyrinth of rooms and corridors. The staging area _is_ on a direct route from the main entrance down a long, wide slope, but the rest isn't what I would consider suitable for a face to face exchange." At the touch of a key, the pathway became highlighted, allowing them to clearly see it.

"How far in?" Hobbes asked.

"One 'undred and fifty feet 'orizontal and 20 vertical," was her quick reply.

"What's on the lower levels?" the Official asked.

"Now, that is a good question. Main shaft drops a good 'undred feet before there's any 'orizontal tunnels. That's according to public records. What's been done on the lower levels since Hammer purchased the mine we've yet to discover." She raised one hand as if in apology. "With more time I'd have more answers for ye," she explained, reminding them that this info had been gathered in just over an hour and giving them an impressive demonstration of how extensive her network was. Even Darien had figured out that she was accessing that database she mentioned back at her building, with employees still gathering more information as she spoke to them. He'd suspect she was in direct communication with someone, except for the fact that he could see no means for her to do so. No phone, no headset, not even a hearing aid like device being used on the sly. He knew, cause he'd checked. Of course, it could just be built into the computer, he supposed, but it wasn't like she'd been giving orders telling whoever was at the other end what to do. _'Damn, she's good.'_

She continued speaking, unaware of Darien's regard. "'E's ostensibly mining the quartz and selling it. Based on purchasing records, that could very well be all 'e's doing."

Darien caught that one. "_Could_ be doing? What else do you do in a mine, but mine?" he asked, almost afraid to hear her answer.

"Much of the gear is standard hardrock and gold mining equipment. Drill rigs, Knelson Concentrator, ConSep ACACIA Reactor, Knelson-Siztec Screen, loaders, graders, skips, all the usual suspects," she rattled off the list as if she had it memorized.

"Gold mining equip? Thought you said it was played-out?" Hobbes pointed out, his eyes narrowing.

"I said it was 'reportedly' played-out," Fallon reiterated. "The Knelson equipment can detect other metals as well, and this type of quartz often 'as metallic components. Copper and platinum 'ave also been found in the area." Her tone made it clear she was tired of Hobbes challenging her, but she apparently wasn't about to tell him so.

"Hobbes..." Darien grumbled, in an attempt to divert the tiger's attention for long enough to allow Fallon to finish. "'E's... _He's_ covering his ass. The mining stuff might just be sitting there rusting for all anyone knows."

"What other equipment has he purchased?" Eberts queried.

She shrugged. "The usual. Micro and macroscopes, crucibles, centrifuges, spectrophotometers, Tekmar Autosampler and Concentrator, a GeneTAC Hybstation, Mitsubishi TOX-10 elemental analyzer, and other items just as obscure. All are legitimate items for mineral mining, but..." she let the sentence hang.

"Lemme guess, all of them can also be used for other things," Darien said as he picked up her line of reasoning, and she nodded. He'd been right, he didn't want to hear her answer. "Crap."

"Aye. There's no record of anything other than mining related chemicals being purchased, but that don' mean much," she confirmed.

"He could have had bought them under another name or company and simply carried them in the front door," the Official stated, sounding none too pleased himself. "He could have a full scale biotech lab running in there, and no one the wiser."

"How many people are we looking at?" Bobby asked, as it was always nice to know how bad of a no-win situation you were walking into.

She scrolled through pages before she answered, "Based on power usage... minimal. Last spike on the grid was 10 months ago. However, they could 'ave upgraded beyond what is in the public records and be running off internally generated power. Nikki'll keep digging, but 'e may not find anything afore the deadline." She keyed in something and then said, "I'd say no more than a score, and more likely 'alf that."

"Not the best odds, 'specially with them having home field advantage," Darien commented aloud, earning frowns from both Bobby and the 'Fish.

But Bobby was apparently thinking along the same lines. He stalked away from the desk, one hand rubbing the top of his head and causing the few remaining hairs to stand upright as if statically charged. "You'll give us a copy of the layout?"

"Aye," Fallon agreed.

"Then it's doable." Bobby spun about to face the Official. "Do you want us to just break up the party or make arrests?"

"Mr. Papadopoulos is not wanted for anything at this time," Eberts responded as if programmed, which, for all Darien knew, he was.

"So we have to catch him making the buy before we bag 'im and tag 'im," Darien observed; he'd been at this game more than long enough to know the rules - from both sides of the field. He received a nod of agreement from the bossman in response.

"However, Mr. Westgaard is wanted for any number of crimes, most relating to terrorism, in a dozen countries," Eberts concluded.

"Plus, there's a rather... large reward for his capture," the Official added, greed lighting up his watery blue eyes.

"Arrest it is, then." Hobbes nodded and began pacing the room and muttering to himself, "... to even up the odds... overwhelming force... surrender instead of a gun fight..." He made two full circuits of the room as Darien watched. He then glanced over at Fallon who was gazing at her monitor, which showed the schematics of the mine again. She zoomed in on sections every now and then, but Darien was too far away to make out any specifics.

"Bobby," the Official prompted, probably hoping to get a coherent response.

"We can do this," Hobbes asserted. "Need a strike team, like the one we put together to take out that Chrys... that winery a couple months back."

"And do what?" Darien asked, incredulous. "Charge in the front door like some reenactment of a light brigade and get slaughtered? We have no clue what the security is like, or if it's booby-trapped..."

"So we'll find out," Hobbes argued, cutting off Darien's rant. "There's only one way in, pal. What? You want to blast a hole in the roof and repel down?"

"No! No explosives. We don't have the budget for that," the Official barked.

"Makes more sense than the suicide run you have planned," Darien snapped as if he hadn't heard the Official.

"Actually, we should have the chemical components for plastique available in the lab," Eberts tossed into the mix. In mere seconds, the whole thing swiftly dissolved into a shouting match.

Darien wasn't sure how long it went on; his snarky comments were definitely verging on insulting when an ear-piercing whistle brought their words up short and four heads swiveled about to focus on the woman standing before the desk with an oddly amused look on her face.

"Gentlemen, if I may offer an alternative."


	6. Chapter 6

---

Bobby Hobbes was _not_ a happy camper, and he was holding onto his temper, paranoia, outrage, et al, by a thin and swiftly fraying thread. No one, well 'cept for maybe Monroe what with all her vaunted relationships, should have the ability and equipment that O'Neill possessed. It was freakin' scary.

Not only had she presented a damn near perfect plan for a small strike infiltration, but all the gear to make it happen. For free. What kind of merc comps a client with manpower and gear worth thousands of dollars? It wasn't like he and Fawkes were a duo of whales heading out for their annual spending spree in Las Vegas.

Granted, it was the end of the month and The Agency didn't have the budget reserves to arrange something like this on short notice, but still... The Official woulda come up with something that'd let them get the job done. Maybe not as well or easily, but they'd've saved the day like always.

_'Crap.'_ Why the hell was he trying to dismember the gift horse? Well, besides his usual inability to trust anyone outside of those who'd _earned_ it. Did he have any specific reason to distrust Miss O'Neill? Not really. But that certainly didn't mean he automatically did the opposite. He was willing to give some leeway for the sake of the mission, but that was pretty much it.

He certainly couldn't fault her skills thus far. She'd personally given all three Agency men a refresher course in climbing gear when they'd shown up bright and early for the final planning meeting. The small semi-private airfield north of the city had been the first of many surprises Bobby'd had to endure. The Sikorsky S-76 he was currently riding in, which had been modified beyond military standard, would have been the biggest if it hadn't been for the private jet he knew was still parked in the hangar. Bobby just kinda went numb after that, wanting to get the mission over with and back to the underfunded normalcy of the Agency, where jets typically had the words "Hot Wheels" imprinted on their chassis.

In total, there were seven of them. Three were from the Agency - Fawkes, Hobbes, and Higgins - and four from O'Neill - Murphy, Stevie, O'Neill, and Juanita, the pilot. Stevie was doing double-duty as co-pilot for the first leg of the journey; he sat up front, looking like he belonged there.

Stevie and Higgins were kit out in desert cammies, in two different patterns, as they'd be staying topside to guard the exit should things go fubar and they needed a clear escape route. The rest of them, except the pilot, were dressed like thieves in black (mostly) from head to toe. Knit caps that converted to balaclavas for everyone but Fawkes, his hair vanity making him adamant on the point, black shirts, jackets with black zippers, black slacks, shoes - boots at O'Neill's insistence - padded gloves, and modified Kevlar vests worn under the jackets. Fawkes refused the latter, saying he preferred traveling light, and while Bobby had tried to argue with his partner, O'Neill just shrugged and set it aside. O'Neill's people wore Glocks in shoulder holsters over the jackets, Bobby had his usual Colt in his waist holster while Fawkes was unencumbered in the weaponry department as was the norm.

He and Fawkes had supplied their own clothes and you could see the difference immediately; aside from the obvious "Jerry" on the dark blue jacket, Fawkes was wearing, that is. Murphy and O'Neill's threads were not a flat black, but mottled, the color varying from shades of dark gray to true black. Bobby had heard of black camouflage during his time as a Marine, but had never seen a set until today. O'Neill's also differed in that her pants had about 1000 pockets for stashing bits of gear, but she hadn't disclosed to them what she had in her possession.

Fawkes had brought along his lockpicks and other small tools of his trade, while Bobby had his Leatherman, spare clips in easily accessible places, and his back-up gun in an ankle holster. They also had their Agency IDs and badges; just to make any arrests something close to resembling legit. Fawkes, for a change, hadn't whined about going unarmed and no one in O'Neill's sandbox had commented on it. And even if they had, they wouldn't be getting an answer. It was none of their frickin' business.

The last pieces of equipment were the headsets: tiny, compact, and self-contained. They clipped about the ear and were surprisingly comfortable to wear. With a press of a button, you could talk to everyone on the group frequency or to individuals on their own frequency. The combination was almost limitless, but did take some practice to master. Hobbes made sure to memorize the group and Fawkes' personal frequency, as those were the two he was most likely to use. This was the type of gear he dreamed of the Agency owning.

The helicopter made a banked turn; nothing but dark gray clouds could be seen out of the window, and Bobby watched as Fawkes glanced down at his watch, then back out the window on his side. The scrub and sand they were speeding past looked almost close enough to touch.

Bobby checked his own watch and grunted softly. _'Right on time.'_ The plan had been to circle high and wide well east of the mine and then come in low and hot to best disguise the copter's approach. The echoes through canyons between the mountains combined with the onshore breeze would do a fair job at reducing the amount of sound that would actually reach the entrance area.

O'Neill sat down across from Bobby and leaned forward. She only needed to raise her voice slightly to be heard over the thrumming of the rotor. "We got a GPS hit on Aristid."

"Where is he?" Fawkes asked, shifting so his head was closer to hers.

"On 'is way 'ere. About two miles out," she answered.

"Least he made it easy for us to keep tabs on him," Hobbes pointed out. They - Eberts - discovered Aristid had rented an H2 with GPS, turned that info over to O'Neill's people and within minutes they knew where the vehicle was to within six feet.

"Aye. Bleedin' fool clearly has no clue 'ow to run an op like this," O'Neill said snidely. "Sat imaging showed five vehicles parked at the entrance of the mine, with three men standing guard, afore the cloud layer became too thick. A group of five others went inside a little over an hour ago."

"So, eight in total," Bobby muttered aloud. "Odds could be worse."

Darien snorted. "That's how many showed today. We still ain't got no clue how big a party was already going on inside."

"Not big on looking at the positive, is he?" Murphy observed dryly.

"Not for a couple of years," was Fawkes' rejoinder. He frowned for a long moment then shook his head. "We ain't gonna get any more prepared than we are."

"Exactly, my friend. The element of surprise'll give us a big advantage," Hobbes looked over at O'Neill, "even if I still think this plan is nuts."

Fallon shrugged. "Complain to your boss."

Hobbes resisted the sudden urge to cuff her upside the head. He _had_ complained, loudly and at great length, to no avail. The Fatman had been more than willing to let her foot the majority of the bill for the mission; he'd only have to cover the cost of the Agency personnel. At least, the Official had been smart enough to hand down a stern reminder to Fawkes about his tendency to let those who shouldn't know find out about the Quicksilver at the wrong time. On this occasion, it'd be Fawkes paying the price if that happened. A few phone calls had revealed exactly how important O'Neill and her information was to a variety of alphabet agencies. Should she learn of the Quicksilver they would be able to do _nothing_ to stop her from selling said info to anyone willing to cough up the cash.

Stevie called back to them from his position up front. "Five minutes."

Murphy got up and moved to the rear cargo area, where the black packs holding the gear they were going to be using were stored, and handed them all out. One each for Hobbes, Murphy, and O'Neill, which contained all the equipment they'd need to pull this off. Or so she claimed. They looked too small to hold everything, but Hobbes had watched them being packed with his own eyes and knew nothing had been forgotten. They were already wearing the black nylon climbing harnesses; the attached carabiners specially made and coated with a matte black material that deadened the sound of metal clinking about as they moved. If nothing else, it was obvious O'Neill's people knew what they were doing.

The time flew by swiftly, and at the 30 second mark, Stevie joined them in the rear cabin, ready to open the door as soon as the chopper stilled.

O'Neill gave Fawkes the once-over; he was slouched in the seat, looking way too relaxed and bored. Perfectly normal Fawkes. Hobbes knew better though; like a cat, his partner was just conserving energy for the job to come.

"Ye best remember to duck when gettin' out or ye'll lose more than some hair," she reminded him, her tone serious, but with a twinkle in her eye that was all humor.

Fawkes gave her a precise, if mocking, salute. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am."

And in that instant the helicopter ceased its forward momentum, the door slid open and they all tumbled out onto the dusty wind-whipped ridge. The instant they were on the ground the pilot peeled away, executing an impressively tight turn to the leave in the direction from which they had arrived.

O'Neill was on her feet as soon as it was clear, pacing along the ridge as if she were searching for something. She stopped twice, did something with her hands that Hobbes couldn't see, walked forward another five steps, and then knelt on the ground. She brushed at the sand to reveal first desert camouflage netting, and then underneath that a steel door.

"Murphy."

He joined her, Hobbes and Fawkes following, and together they moved to swiftly uncover the door while Stevie and Higgins took up guard positions. It was their job to keep the area secure. If things went wrong, this route would the one they used to escape.

The door was revealed to be a three foot by three foot square, with hinges on the inside and a large lock securing it to the solid steel frame built into the rock of the ridge.

"Fawkes," Hobbes nodded towards the lock, "think you can handle it?"

"No prob," Fawkes said, already reaching for his lockpicks.

Murphy snorted. "Picks won't work on that one." He stood up, eyeing the pair of men. "Need a round key."

"Crap," Fawkes muttered.

Hobbes agreed with the sentiment, wondering how to distract O'Neill so's his partner could frost and shatter the thing. "Play it cool, Fawkes," he suggested and saw Darien's look brighten as he got the meaning.

"Fallon, lemme have a go at it." Darien offered, following the leader.

"Nay." She'd reached into one of her numerous pockets and came up with what Hobbes recognized as a hand-held mini-welder. She flicked it on, adjusted the flame to a brilliant and nearly invisible blue, and set it against the arms of the padlock. Within seconds, the metal glowed red, then orange, then white and melted away. She turned off the welder and kicked the lock away with a booted foot.

The door itself sat flush with its frame and it was built out of heavy gauge steel, so all of them worked together, fingertips aching as they dug them in to wiggle it up enough to achieve a better grip and lift it upright. The hinges were designed for full rotation, so the cover dropped to the ground with an impressive _whoomp_ complete with a cloud of sand rising into the air. Fallon dropped to her belly, checking the dark space below for potential unpleasant surprises.

"Clear," she informed them, then scooted forward until she could fold her upper body at the waist. She grasped the edge of the frame in a firm grip and proceeded to do a controlled flip that ended with her hanging by her fingers into the dark space below.

_'Damn she has some impressive upper body strength... for a chick.'_ Hobbes squatted next to the opening, a flashlight trained on the floor below, as the cloudy day was just not providing quite enough light in his opinion. She let go, landing in a crouch, her own light out and on mere seconds after landing.

"Drop's about two feet," she warned as Hobbes pocketed his light and slithered his way backwards over the edge. He was too damn old and not nearly limber enough to perform her little display of athletics.

Once down, he stepped to the side, checking things out as Fawkes entered the same way, followed shortly thereafter by Murphy. Hobbes looked up at the square of daylight; Stevie and Higgins standing on opposite sides and looking down.

"Keep yer heads down," Murphy admonished them, causing Stevie to laugh. Hobbes could only guess it was a reference to something that had occurred on some previous adventure.

"Higgins...," Hobbes said and got a quick nod of assurance. Higgins had been warned to watch for trouble from O'Neill's goon. She wasn't one of the 'good guys' by any stretch of the imagination, so Hobbes was taking no chances of a double-cross. She was after something and he didn't know what it was. That meant there was a high risk of this little mission coming back to bite them on the ass.

Fawkes had wandered a few feet down the hallway. It was pretty much as expected: rough hewn rock walls lined with steel supports and assorted conduits wherever it was convenient. The floor was hard-packed dirt that would mask sound and not raise any appreciable dust that might make their presence known. There were fluorescent lights strung overhead, but they weren't lit. In fact, the only light he could see, besides theirs, was the occasional LED on a control panel. The only noise was the soft susurration of air being moved about by the ventilation system.

O'Neill was staring at some softly glowing piece of gear in her hand; it looked like a small PDA, while Murphy paced slowly about, waiting patiently for their next move.

Hobbes wasn't so patient. "Well?"

"This way." She waved down the tunnel, taking them deeper into the mine.

Hobbes took point, using his flashlight to reveal their route. The place was obviously maintained, but currently empty of warm bodies. O'Neill followed directly behind him, calling out the turns as necessary. In less than five minutes, they arrived at the main ventilation room. The equipment made more than enough noise to keep them from speaking, but it didn't matter; they knew what to do.

They stripped of the packs and began to empty them, they'd be abandoned at this point, to leave them as unencumbered as possible. If things went well they would collect all the pieces parts later. Murphy located the vertical shaft they needed and removed the access panel while Fawkes went to work on securing the line they'd be climbing down to something solid. He chose one of the overhead cross beams, load bearing and more'n secure enough to handle their combined weight. O'Neill had put the toy away and was attaching the lightweight motorized ascenders to the line. Hobbes had questioned their use until she explained that they'd be for escape. Climbing up the equivalent of several stories on a thin nylon rope free hand in a completely smooth shaft was not a pleasant prospect and not something that could be done in a hurry. And while Hobbes hoped it would be unnecessary, a back-up plan was always a good idea.

"We're set," Murphy announced; even over the headset, they could barely hear him.

O'Neill went first, she hooked herself to the ascender, set it to neutral (they wouldn't need to be turned on for the drop), climbed over the edge and vanished from sight, dropping straight down into the black depths without any hesitation. Fawkes went next and, clearly not about to be upstaged by a mere _girl_, especially when he'd spent a fair part of his life climbing buildings for a living, proceeded to do exactly the same as if he'd been doing it daily for the last several months instead of having taken a refresher course just this morning. Then it was Murphy, who, being a large man in every sense of the word, moved with a cautious deliberation and slipped into the shaft in a far more controlled manner.

Hobbes had rearguard this time around. It had been a while since he'd done something like this (last time had been during Desert Storm), but the skill came back quickly. He could feel the air moving upwards past him, but it was little more than a gentle breeze and not the gale he'd half expected. He focused between his feet, looking for the light that would mean he was coming up on Murphy's position.

He applied the brake and came to a rest with his feet about a foot above Murphy's head. Below them, O'Neill was already hard at work on the wall of the shaft, the mini-welder out and aimed at the wall, slowing cutting an exit for them. Supposedly, there was an access hatch on the second level, but they had decided it would be better to come out on the first and make their way to the viewing area that overlooked the mine staging area. It was their hope that there would be fewer people between the shaft and the staging area, than down the additional level.

"We're almost through," Fawkes said in Hobbes' ear.

With a small _whump_, the wall came free and Fawkes and O'Neill moved with a surprising coordination for never having worked together before. He shifted the wall, held firmly in a pair of those suction climbers he favored, as she squeezed through the tiny space to check for unwanted attention.

Her accented, "Clear," came through seconds later. The wall was removed from Fawkes' hold, who then vanished from sight. Murphy slid down the line and made his own exit, followed by Hobbes. He unclipped his carabiner from the ascender, making sure it was locked in place. Not that it would have mattered much if he had failed to do so, the rope ended another five feet below the location at a series of solid knots, which would prevent any of them from sliding off the end should they fail to apply the brakes. None of them had any interest in a long drop onto the large sharp blades of the ventilation fan three levels down.

Now Murphy took point, alert for any possible problems, while O'Neill, once again, called out the directions. The tunnels were dark, only the pale glow of rope lighting along the edges of the floor keeping them on course. Every now and then O'Neill would shine one'a those small but startlingly bright LED flashlights about at an intersection to make certain they were indeed on the right track. O'Neill had openly admitted that the schematics she'd accessed could be off if changes had been made that weren't on record.

They kept to a swift pace, and within minutes, the tunnel before them began to lighten and they dimmed their flashlights. Together they approached with caution, O'Neill and Murphy exchanging hand signals that Hobbes understood, but would baffle Fawkes. It boiled down to two guards, armed, and which each of them would take out. So, when Fawkes moved to follow O'Neill, Hobbes grabbed him by the arm and warned him to silence with a look. Still, curiosity impelled both of them to peek around the bend in the tunnel to see what was happening.

Like a well-oiled machine, they each approached their targets, Murphy taking the one furthest away. With an unspoken command they moved, verifying to Hobbes they'd been working together for quite a while. With near identical moves, hands covered mouths, while the other jabbed something into the back of the guards, causing them to initially stiffen in reaction and then fold; either unconscious or dead. They dragged the bodies into a convenient alcove and waved for Hobbes and Fawkes to join them.

As Hobbes went past the alcove, he glanced at the men lying there and, with an odd mixture of relief and concern, realized they were still among the living, napping peacefully, if uncomfortably.

Murphy took note of Hobbes' observation. "We don't kill unless absolutely necessary," he stated sotto voce. "If a job's done right, no one should get hurt."

Fawkes grunted in reaction to that comment, and Hobbes was damn curious as to why, but the tunnel opened up just then, the wall to their left vanishing and giving them an unobstructed view of the staging area below... and their targets.

---

Darien lay flat on the ground and gave the place the once over. Their location was in shadow thanks to the lights being angled away from the walls and aimed like spotlights on the floor some 15 feet below them. Directly across from them was a solid wall instead of a matching opening, which meant no guards on a catwalk to spot them. The stairway down was just past the far side of the opening, out of sight from those below. If there were guards on the stairs, he couldn't see them.

Down below, however, there were plenty of guards. Papadopoulos was already there with two guys who were clearly on his payroll. They were flanked by three who just as clearly played for the other team. Their clothes matched the pair that had been put out of commission by Murphy and Fallon just a few minutes ago.

Papadopoulos had a classic metal briefcase, which in all probability held the cash to pay for the goods. He and his goons were standing under the bright lights, a table stood at the very edge of the well-defined circle with at least three figures in the inky darkness behind it. So, that meant at least nine bad guys versus the good guys' foursome. _'Well, it could be worse.'_

Their position was relatively secure, as it would require someone looking almost directly up and through the glaring lights to spot them. Question was: how to break up the party without making big ol' targets of themselves?

Murphy and Fallon were whispering sweet nothings to each other in some language that was most certainly _not_ English. _'No fair.'_ Eavesdropping shouldn't require a translator.

"Fawkes," Hobbes hissed.

"Yeah?" He shifted closer to Bobby, covering the mike like Hobbes was. _'Why'd we wear the things if we ain't gonna use 'em?'_

"I'm thinking some _reconnaissance_ might be a good idea." Bobby made it clear with a look that said recon should be done invisibly. But that meant splitting up, which was usually frowned upon.

"Aye, we should," Fallon suddenly said over the com., which proved they'd not done as good job hiding their discussion as she had. The glare Bobby shot her way pretty much covered it, but she only shrugged. "They 'ave an off switch."

Darien couldn't help himself and laughed softly. Hobbes grumbled something under his breath, but nodded. "We might need a distraction to make this go smoothly."

That got nods of agreement from both Fallon and Murphy.

Fallon followed up on that 'we should' and slithered off towards the stairs, staying low as a precaution. As Darien began to follow, Bobby pulled him close and hissed, "If things look to be going south, grab the goods, and get out. I've got your back."

_'What about Fallon?'_ Darien wanted to ask, but _knew_ if push came to shove that she and Murphy were expendable. He wasn't. Their job came first, and Fallon's reasons for being here were not necessary for that often difficult-to-believe-in greater good. He stuck to the deeper shadows and trailed after Fallon. He caught up with her in time to see her dispatch another one of Westgaard's men, and helped her drag him out of sight.

The stairs were off to one side of the tunnel, which continued on its winding way towards the entrance of the mine. They were metal and steep, practically a ladder, and were certainly going to be noisy no matter how carefully they went down them. Fallon lay flat, head hanging down the wrong side for a long moment, then popped back up with a frown.

She joined him at the head of the stairs. "Watch and learn," she said as she balanced the palms of both hands on the railings. With an agile movement, she pushed off, tucking her legs up as she slid silently down the rails.

He looked at the palms of the gloves he wore, he hadn't really taken notice of them before, figuring that Fallon wouldn't have provided gear that wasn't suitable, since she just didn't seem the type to screw up on something so basic. They were designed for climbing, providing better grip than potentially sweaty hands, but, as with most of her gear, had been modified beyond the standard. What he hadn't noticed was the strip across the middle that was lacking the padded leather overlay, making them perfect for slidin' down metal railings.

From below came the sounds of a struggle, which made him realize he better get off his ass and down the stairs. Because he was a good half a foot taller than Fallon, tucking his legs wouldn't work, so he instead kept them straight and canted slightly forward from the hips as he glided down the railings. He found it just as much fun as the frowned upon childhood banister sliding he'd never entirely given up.

He bent his knees to absorb the impact, coming to a stop in a crouch just in time to see Fallon get the upper hand with the guard she'd surprised. She jabbed him with something that looked like a stubby pen, like from one'a those bee sting kits that had a dose of epinephrine in 'em. Hers obviously contained something else since the guy folded, the impromptu nap assuring he'd be out of the picture until this was over.

She quickly dragged him out of sight and joined Darien who was peeking out past the end of the tunnel and at the group gathered about the table. Three more men had joined the party, sporting a selection of weaponry. "Crap," he muttered.

"_You see the new arrivals, Fawkes?"_ Bobby asked in a soft voice.

"Aye," Fallon responded. "This t'ain't gonna be pretty."

"_Just give me the signal when yer ready,_" Murphy said, completely unconcerned with the downward shift in odds for their team.

Hobbes began to say something, but was cut off. Sounded like he'd found that off switch, or Murphy had found it for him.

Fallon adjusted her cap, folding it down so that all that was visible was a strip about her eyes. She checked her gun and then said firmly, "Stay 'ere." She didn't even give him the chance to argue and melted into the shadows along the wall, heading in the direction they presumed Westgaard was.

Out on the floor, Aristid was following bad guy script number three: puffing up his chest, going on and on about how important he was and how Westgaard would be wise to bow down and kiss his feet. It was clear no one was impressed with his impassioned declarations.

Westgaard's top two goons, whom Darien had dubbed Abbot and Costello mostly 'cause he couldn't remember their real names, stepped into view. Abbot placed a small metal cylinder on the table and twisted it, the top half separating from the lower. He removed the interior compartment to reveal two test tubes, four vials, and a mini disc. The directions for use at a guess.

"Your turn," Costello said.

Aristid nodded and walked forward to set the case on the table. He unlocked it and swung it open, allowing Darien to catch a glimpse of a hell of a lot of money unless he was very mistaken.

Costello gave the money a cursory look, apparently approving of the amount. Aristid removed one of the test tubes from its padded resting place for a closer examination. "How much will I need to use?" he asked, his voice oozing with a joy that made Darien's skin crawl.

"It was designed to your specifications. What you see should more than adequately meet your needs."

That came from neither of the comedy team.

The hitherto unseen Tormond Westgaard stepped forward so Darien could see the barest outline of his body and the hint of light colored hair.

_"Fawkes, it's time to break up the party,"_ Hobbes ordered. _"Can you get 'em riled up without making yourself a target?"_

The test tube had been returned to its place and the container sealed while Hobbes spoke, and that fact gave Darien an idea on how to stir up some trouble. "Oh yeah," he responded as he let the Quicksilver flow about him. First thing he did was look about for Fallon, since he could now see into the shadows with frightening ease, but didn't spot her. Apparently, she was pretty damn good at making herself invisible as well. He could only hope she'd heard the exchange over the com and would take the appropriate action. Second, he eyeballed their mystery man - Tormond Westgaard. The guy gave off an air of cruelty even at a distance. He was handsome, in an over-muscled football quarterback kind of way, Darien supposed. Not huge, not even startling really, which was kinda a disappointment given the Nosferatu-like rep that he was credited with. Though, thanks to the likes of Arnaud and Stark, Darien had learned that evil, far more often than not, wore an angelic face. Why should this time be any different?

With his usual cat-like grace, he made his way over to the table, being careful not to pass too close to anyone and risk the chill coming off him warning them of his presence. With the carefully controlled air flow in here a sudden cold spot would be _very_ noticeable. And would be sure to alert any of the high-strung guards that something hinky was going on.

He sidled right up next to the table just as the discussion wrapped up. Casually, he reached out and set a hand atop the canister, and directed the Quicksilver to envelope it. As soon as it vanished from sight, he snagged it and tucked it into his jacket. It was awkward, but left his hands free for his next move. He crouched down and slid under the table on his back. From his position on the floor, he repeated the process with the briefcase full of money. Since it was larger than the canister, someone actually noticed it disappearing and shouted a warning.

That's when all hell broke loose.


	7. Chapter 7

---

Fallon had made her way about the huge room until hidden as optimally as she could manage in a short span of time. It was near an unguarded tunnel entrance that she knew linked up with the main route out of the mine. She also knew Fawkes had been told to start some trouble and provide a bit of a distraction, but somehow missed his move. All she knew was the conversation between Papadopoulos and Westgaard went from the over-polite end of meet normalcy to shouts of anger. Westgaard and his gurriers accusing Papadopoulos of reneging on the deal and him arguing, half in Greek, that he'd done nothing of the sort and then throw the same accusation right back.

_'Bloody hell.'_ That voice. She would _never_ forget that voice, but it wasn't enough. Her opportunity came when the table was shoved violently by Aristid, and conveniently cleared her line of sight. She snapped off a half dozen shots with the camera, at least one of which would be usable she was certain of that; the flash revealing the face still hidden in the darkness manufactured by the creatively angled lighting.

Pretty much as she expected, the camera flash was misinterpreted as a muzzle flash, thus making it a bleedin' near perfect distraction. With a snarl, Westgaard pulled his gun and fired point blank at Aristid, placing the bullet neatly between his eyes. He was dead before he even realized that the tide had turned against him. One of his men managed to get off a shot, putting down the man to Westgaard's left. That was quickly followed by a shout from above.

"Federal agents, freeze!"

The response was, not so surprisingly, gunfire.

Fallon pulled her Glock and took out two of the guards. "Murphy, go," she said into the mike, breaking the radio silence she'd maintained the last few minutes.

_"Understood,"_ he confirmed, and she could be confident in the knowledge that he would get the Agency men out of here, dragging them by force, if necessary.

She lay down some cover fire, drawing attention to herself. And it worked. Maybe a bit too well as Tor... Oh, it was definitely him, those eyes were unmistakable, stepped out into the light, giving her a clear view of his face, and caused her to do the very last thing she expected: she froze.

---

Darien got to his feet, both items in his possession, and booked it for the stairs, hoping to _not_ get shot by a stray bullet when they started flying about like angry bees. "Hobbes," he whispered, "I got the stuff."

_"Good. Now get the hell out of Dodge,"_ Hobbes barked as the situation on the floor went from bad to downright ugly.

Darien charged up the stairs just as the exchange of deadly bits of lead began in earnest. "Fallon," he called out, shedding the Quicksilver as he reached the top of the stairs. He was just in time to see Westgaard put a bullet into Aristid.

That's when Hobbes shouted, "Federal agents, freeze," which was effective in doing nothing more than have gunfire ringing off the walls around them. Darien dropped to the floor to avoid being hit. He caught sight of Fallon standing out in the open and doing a marvelous impression of a target. All that was missing was the giant bull's eye and a sign reading 'shoot me.'

"Fawkes, move it," Murphy ordered between shots.

Darien balked, not wanting to leave Fallon behind, even though he knew he should, knew she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Of course, that's when Westgaard stepped into the light, raised his gun, and shot her.

"Crap," Darien hissed. "Hobbes, heads up."

Hobbes' head snapped about and Darien shoved the pair of items at him, then got to his feet and ran for the stairs with his partner's "Fawkes," ringing in his ears.

He slid down the railing just like before, only faster if that was possible, Quicksilvering as soon as he hit the floor and ran for where Fallon was struggling to sit up. Westgaard was pacing towards her; his gun at the ready and an oddly disconcerted look on his face. Fallon ripped the mask off, looking decidedly angry.

"Gonna try to finish the job this time?" she growled, pushing herself up to her knees. She was probably in pain; vests might stop the bullets from penetrating, but it still hurt like hell. Darien remembered all too well.

Westgaard stopped cold, his arm lowering as he stared at her. This gave Darien more than enough time to get to her.

Memory clicked and Westgaard hissed, "You."

Darien let the Quicksilver flow across Fallon and tugged her towards the stairs. Instead of the expected, 'what the hell' or the equivalent, she grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him in the opposite direction. "This way."

---

_Charles Darwin in his famous, or infamous, if you prefer, book _The Origin of Species _wrote, "In the struggle for survival, the fittest win out at the expense of their rivals because they succeed in adapting themselves best to their environment."_

_In this day and age, the phrase 'survival of the fittest' was usually reserved for the boardroom or political arenas. Usually. I was about to become reacquainted with its original and far more threatening meaning in a big way._

---

"Fawkes," Hobbes shouted as his _partner_ bolted for the staircase. "Why you stupid frickin' punk. Get your scrawny ass back here so's I can kick it into next week." Fawkes, not surprisingly, failed to respond. Oh, Bobby was _so_ gonna kill him once they were back home.

"Agent Hobbes," Murphy bellowed as he lay down some covering fire. "Grab the swag and let's go."

Hobbes holstered his weapon and did so almost without a thought. Staying low, they backed away, needing to put a solid wall between them and the deadly projectiles flying about. A last glance below showed O'Neill getting slowly to her feet, the vest she'd been wearing having done its job to keep her alive. However, Westgaard was right there; his gun trained on her head this time.

"Move," Murphy growled. "Need t'get you outta here."

Hobbes dug in his heels; getting under cover so they wouldn't get shot was one thing, leaving his partner was another. "We need to wait for Fawkes and O'Neill," he shouted, not caring who heard. "Cover 'em when they..."

"No," Murphy interrupted. "They ain't coming." He grabbed Hobbes' jacket collar and physically dragged him down the tunnel, back the way they had come.

Hobbes dropped the briefcase and pulled his Colt, stuffing it right up under Murphy's left ear. He wisely held perfectly still, but that was it. "Spill," Hobbes ordered; his tone as cold and threatening as he could manage.

"I'm following the plan and getting you outta here," Murphy explained, turning slowly around to meet Hobbes' wary gaze.

"This _wasn't_ part of the plan," Hobbes asserted, the gun now tucked up under the larger man's chin.

Murphy smiled. "Not your plan, no. Fallon's."

Hobbes felt a murderous rage rise up like a tsunami seeking a shore to crash upon. "I _knew_ it. You can't trust a merc. Double-crossing little bi..."

Murphy moved, his hands a blur as they snapped up, one to grasp Hobbes' gun hand and the other coming down on his elbow. In an instant Hobbes was disarmed. "If we were going to double-cross you, why would it be my job to get you out of here?"

Okay, a valid point. "So, then what? What does she want with Fawkes?" As if he didn't know.

Murphy shook his head in obvious dismay. "You don't get it, I'm s'posed to get both you _and_ Fawkes out."

Hobbes blanked. The sentence repeating over and over in his mind as tried to make sense of it.

Murphy sighed, picked up the briefcase, and gestured for Hobbes to get moving with the gun. "Look," Murphy began as they moved deeper into the tunnel, "Fallon knew the odds were stacked against us going into this, so she decided to make sure _you'd_ get out if things went to shite. Not her fault Fawkes went and played hero." He handed Hobbes back the gun, somehow knowing that there'd be no more argument on the matter.

"Crap," Hobbes muttered, pissed that Murphy had gotten the jump on him. Pissed at Fawkes for thinking with his heart instead of his head. Pissed at O'Neill for not telling them her plan. And most of all pissed at himself for failing his partner. "How good is she?" He had to ask, had to find that spark of hope, for Fawkes' sake as much as his own.

Murphy chuckled, the sound low and rough in the darkness. "You'd be surprised."

---

_'Damn, she's fast.'_ Darien skidded around another corner in the underground maze they were in, cursing every step that took them further away from the staging area and their escape route. While he hadn't a clue where they were, it was quite obvious that Fallon did, as her steps never faltered even when he shouted at her to hold up for just a second. She had no clue that at any moment... There, the Quicksilver fell away from her, leaving her very visible to anyone who might be around the next corner. With a burst of speed, he surged forward, got a hold of her shoulder holster, and dragged her into the first open doorway.

He shoved her against the wall of the darkened room, the only light that which bled in from the hall and let the Quicksilver flake away.

"So, I'm guessing there be more than a bit'a truth to those rumors," she said, her eyes alight with greed. He could practically hear the _cha-ching_ of cash registers as she mentally counted up the cash she was gonna make off this tidbit of info.

_'Shit.'_

"Looks like," he growled, wanting to berate her for being so... mercenary, but knowing her, she'd probably just take it as a compliment. "It can't be worth _that_ much."

She gave him this drowsy look of pleasure. "I know two... no, three clients that would gladly bankrupt themselves for the info," she informed him, sounding like the Official crowing about Alex being a 'freebie' when she had first come to the Agency.

"Crap," he grumbled. "Won't do you no good if you're dead." And dead was looking to be a real possibility this time. "We need to get out of here."

"Aye, we do," she agreed. She reached up and adjusted the headset. "Murphy." She paused, waiting for a response.

Darien tapped his earpiece, wondering why he wasn't receiving her. Looked like there were a few more tricks besides an off switch to the headsets. Maybe he should have been paying attention when she was going over how they worked? Too late to worry about that now, by far.

"Give me 15 and ye'll be clear to go." And with that cryptic statement, she removed her headset, grabbed Darien's off his ear, tossed both to the ground, and proceeded to smash them with a booted foot.

"Hey! What'd you do that for?" Darien began at a shout, but quickly lowered his voice.

Fallon made a valiant attempt to ignore the question and slip away from him, but he was having none of it. Hadn't he risked his life to save hers back there? He shoved her against the wall with one hand and held her there.

She yelped, paled and growled, "Get off, ya git," shoving his hand away violently.

His hand came away wet and it took a moment for him to realize it was blood. "You're bleeding," he informed her in bemused surprise.

She took advantage of his confusion to move to the doorway and take a cautious look into the tunnel. "That's what usually 'appens when one gets shot." She removed her gun awkwardly, ejected the clip, checked it, and then shoved it back into place. "C'mon."

Darien didn't argue, her calm acceptance of her injury bothering him for some reason, but she didn't give him an opportunity question her about it. This time he made sure to stay close, practically on her heels, in case he - they - needed to go see-through again. "Thought you were wearing a vest?" Hell, he'd watched her put it on and zip the black jacket over it.

"I am," she confirmed, cautiously checking everything before crossing an intersection or turning a corner. "Can ye do your trick again?" she asked, glancing back at him over her shoulder.

"Yeah." Then he heard the voices that must have alerted her. He closed the distance between them and let the Quicksilver flow. "I need to stay in contact or you'll become visible," he warned; his head near hers.

"Oh. Aye." She did the only thing that made sense in this situation and fumbled for his hand. Once she had a good grip, she led the way, moving at a swift walk that built up into a light jog. Fast, but allowing them time to make note of anyone that could cause them trouble.

It wasn't long before they encountered armed men who were obviously searching for something, or someone, but they didn't stick around long enough to verify what. Darien could only hope Hobbes was all right, that he'd done the smart thing and headed back to the ventilation shaft and the escape route they'd set up. 'Cause, without the Quicksilver, there was no chance he'd get out the front door. Which made Darien wonder exactly why Fallon appeared to be attempting to do that very thing.

"Fallon...," he swallowed the remainder of the words as the tunnel they were jogging down opened up onto a much larger one. A glance to the left revealed them to be all of 10 yards from the main door, which currently had a half dozen well-armed guards watching it. She dragged him across the open expanse - the tunnel had to be 25 feet wide at least - into another side tunnel and then into a room.

"Christ, they're everywhere." He backed further from the door, to better hide the sound of their voices from those outside. "You'd think we frickin' stole the Hope Diamond or somethin'." The Quicksilver fell away and he ran his hands nervously through his hair. "There ain't no chance Hobbes got away if they sent this many after us. There's a frickin' army in here."

Fallon laughed bitterly. "Ye don' get it, do ye?"

"Get what?" Darien snapped, not in the mood for games, especially 20 Questions.

"They t'ain't gonna bother with Hobbes an' Murphy. The money is nothing and 'e can make more product anytime 'e wants." Fallon winced, her right hand going to her upper left chest, just below the collarbone, and pressing firmly against it.

Darien stared at her, trying to understand, but failing. "Okay, why come after us, then?"

"Not _us_. Me." She unzipped the jacket and tried to undo the modified vest one-handed.

With a sigh, he stepped closer to help. "Why you?" he undid the buckle atop her shoulder, realizing unhappily that the bullet had gone _through_ the vest and that it hadn't been a dumb luck shot that got her. He then adjusted the buckles along her side, the shoulder holster not allowing them to loosen completely.

"I saw 'is face," she stated with a fierce joy. "'E _has_ to stop me."

"Great, just great," Darien muttered, noting the increased bleeding once the pressure of the vest was gone. "Why the hell would you deliberately draw his attention like that? You had to know it'd get you killed."

She looked him in the eye, not flinching when he gently probed at the wound. "To make sure you got away, a'course. 'Cept ye decided to be a bleedin' eejit and rescue me."

Darien froze for a second, stunned. She'd planned, from the start, to play bait, to distract the bad guys just so he and Bobby could get away? Was she nuts? "What about Murphy?"

"'Is sole purpose was to get ye out. Agent Hobbes'll be fine. Murphy is _very_ good at his job."

"You are insane, if you think I'm gonna let you sacrifice yourself for me," Darien informed her coldly. He wasn't about to let _anyone_ die for him. No way, no how.

"Sacrifice myself..." She laughed, clearly amused by the absurdity of his proclamation. "I do 'ave a plan, y'know."

"Oh," he replied sheepishly. "Have I screwed it up?"

"Nay, though getting shot is proving to be a bit of an inconvenience."

"I bet. Look, I think I can stop the bleeding, for a while anyway." Darien fully realized she'd need to be as functional as possible if her plan, whatever it may be, was going to work.

"I was gonna cauterize it." She dug into one of the pockets and came up with the mini-welder.

"Ah, no way, and lemme just say... ouch." Certainly couldn't deny she had more than enough balls to follow through on that idea out of necessity and expediency. Thankfully, he had a very viable option to present her.

"Then 'ow?"

Darien Quicksilvered his hand. "The surface temp is below zero. It should freeze the wound shut," he explained. "It won't, uh, be very comfortable while I do it though."

"And it is now?" she snarked. "Jus' do it."

He nodded. Using his visible hand, he shifted the collar of the black shirt aside and took a moment to examine the neat little hole that was bleeding freely before setting his invisible fingers against it. She hissed in pain, biting her lip to keep what was surely a scream trapped inside her throat, her free hand coming up to rest on his chest. Not in an effort to push him away, but to brace herself and remain still while he did what was necessary.

He counted silently to 10, and then pulled his hand away to see if it had worked. Last time he'd done this had been to save the Official from a nasty neurotoxin. There were days he still wondered why he'd done it. This time was as successful as the last. There was no more bleeding, externally anyway, the skin a deep red of early frostbite from the cold, but that was it.

"Did the bullet go all the way through?"

She shook her head and dropped her hand to the side. "Nay. Need to remember to choose a better souvenir next time."

Darien choked on a laugh. "Did you just make a joke about being shot?"

"Me? Ye must be daft," she answered with a hint of a grin, then soberly, "Thank ye."

"No prob. What's our next move?" A good question, he thought, especially with the entire place after her... them.

"Answer me something..."

"Maybe, what?"

"How long can ye... do that?" She waved at him vaguely.

"Long as you need, why?" In for a penny, in for a pound, he figured. Not that he was going to give her the details on the QS-9300 Project or anything. Yeah, she now knew he could go invisible, but not _how_ he did it. Semantics maybe, but a difference that might keep the 'Fish from physically hurting Darien.

"Can ye shoot through it?" she asked, and at his look of confusion she added, "If a gun is invisible will it still fire, or does the stuff affect the mechanism?"

"Oh. No, guns work just fine Quicksilvered." _'Crap.'_ He hadn't meant to give her that.

She smiled. "Perfect." Then, "Can ye shoot?"

Darien shook his head. "If you mean pull the trigger, yes. Hit something? No."

"Feck," she grumbled. She set about adjusting the vest, clearly pondering something.

"What's the problem? I assumed you were a pretty good shot."

"I am. When me arm ain't got a hole in it." She gave him a look that all but shouted, wake up, and pay attention.

Okay, so he'd missed something. The holster was under her right arm, which, unlike Bobby's hip holster, was designed to be cross-drawn.

_'Cross-drawn.'_

"Crap. You're left-handed."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, glad to know ye be Mister Observant." She lifted the arm in question to shoulder level and waited. Within seconds, it began to shake under the strain of supporting its own weight. That didn't bode very well for accuracy.

"Will we need the gun if we're invisible?" he asked, trying to get some idea of her plan.

"Depends. Do ye want them to follow us on foot or in vehicles?"

Put that way, being able to shoot seemed like a good idea. Assuming she wasn't as skilled right-handed, he came up with the only option that might work. "I have to stay close to keep us both see-through, so what if I support your arm? Think you could shoot well enough then?"

She thought about it, and after a few seconds nodded. "Worth a try anyway."

"Good. Now, how do we get out of here?"

"Simple. We walk out the front door."


	8. Chapter 8

---

As soon as they were out of the ventilation shaft, Murphy was calling ahead for back-up. "Steve, we're on our way out, one short, so keep your eyes open."

The reply was quick. _"I'll inform 'Nita. Who'd we lose?"_

"Fawkes," Murphy responded, urging Hobbes to increase his pace.

Speaking of whom... "Fawkes, do you copy?"

Murphy grunted. "Don't bother. They're offline."

Hobbes snarled softly, once again wishing they had never let O'Neill get involved with this. There musta been some other way to buy her off. "And why would they do that?" he asked through painfully clenched teeth.

They turned the final corner, daylight oozing in from the doorway above them. Murphy gave Hobbes a sharp look. "You tell me."

_'Damn it.'_ He hated the answer a question with a question routine. Fawkes did it too, far too often; he didn't need strangers doing it as well. But it forced him to think. The headsets were good quality with a decent range, though minimal frequency choices: a trade-off with the miniaturized gear. That range was reduced in the mine simply due to all the rock, but once outside they coulda used the signal to track... "Crap. So how're _we_ gonna find 'em without the radio? Smoke signals?"

Stevie was waiting above them to assist. Hobbes tossed the briefcase up, and it was caught deftly and set aside. "We've got it covered, Agent Hobbes," he said as Murphy gave Hobbes a boost up. Stevie grasped Hobbes' hands firmly and practically lifted him out.

Gunfire from several weapons could be heard in the distance, the shots echoing hollowly off the canyon walls.

"Hobbes," Higgins acknowledged, his gun drawn as a precaution. "Had some problems?"

"Don't we always?" Hobbes snarked.

The sound of the helicopter drowned out the gunfire, and Hobbes swung about to see Stevie and Murphy shut the access door with a loud _bang_ that kicked up dust. The metal briefcase sat on the ground where it had been placed. The canister was still stuffed into Hobbes' vest, the only available place to stick it while climbing up the shaft. Stevie picked up the case. "She's coming in fast. Be ready."

Seconds later the chopper popped up from the canyon and did the flying equivalent of screeching to a halt, practically standing on its nose for an instant before settling atop the hillside a good 20 feet away.

The four men rushed the copter, the Agency men diving in first, followed by Stevie and then Murphy. "Go, 'Nita," Murphy ordered even before the door had been shut. With a quick move, the pilot had the copter in the air and turned about, heading back the way it had come.

"Turn around," Hobbes shouted over the sound of the rotors.

"Agent Hobbes, my orders..."

Hobbes pulled his gun and aimed it at Murphy's head. "Turn us around now."

"I can't do that." Murphy remained stoically calm.

Hobbes growled, "My partner is back there getting shot at, and I am _not_ leaving him behind."

Stevie snorted. "Fallon'll take care of him."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Hobbes snapped.

"Agent Hobbes, do you think we're flying _away_ because we want to?" Stevie asked.

"Sure looks that way t'me." But the gun wavered ever so slightly. "Orders?"

Murphy nodded. "You and the package are to be delivered to your Agency safe and sound ASAP."

The gun lowered. "This was part of the plan?" Hobbes shook his head, not understanding any of this. "Y'know if you'd let us in on this _plan_ maybe Fawkes wouldn't have made such a bonehead move."

Murphy and Stevie exchanged a look.

"Your boss knew about it," Murphy told Hobbes.

Hobbes sat down heavily and ran a hand over his face. "Perfect. Just frickin' perfect."

The helicopter completed its long banking turn and headed due west.

---

They didn't have to wait long for someone to open the door and, sweet as you please, they slipped out with little trouble. Darien swallowed hard as they moved off to the right towards the slope of the hillside. There were a dozen men, all of them armed and looking pissed off, and half that many vehicles. There was nowhere to go but up. Thankfully, the slope wasn't too steep here or they'd be scrambling on hands and knees.

"Fawkes," Fallon hissed. "Remember, shoot, then move. Can't let 'em find our position."

"Got it." He pressed up against her back and found her hand by feel. He supported her arm, his hand curled about her wrist as she took her first shot and missed; the bullet impacting the dirt about a foot short of her target.

"Bloody hell," she swore as they shifted, moving uphill and to the right as the men down below all dove for cover and readied their weapons.

"Problem?" Darien asked as she raised her arm again.

"Can't see the gun so me aim's off," she explained as she squeezed off another round, this one hitting the left rear tire of the vehicle furthest from them. She got off two more rounds, taking out another tire on the first vehicle and the windshield of a second before they moved straight to the left. This time there was return fire, but at their former position. More men poured out of the mine entrance so she changed her target to them. Two shots had them dropping to the ground and Darien pulling her uphill just in time to avoid the spray of bullets aimed in their general vicinity.

"Fallon, our luck is gonna run out," he warned, knowing someone would get impatient and just pepper the entire hillside with automatic weapons fire.

"Aye, you keep us moving, I'll keep 'em down."

He didn't argue, and with one arm firmly about her waist the other supporting her wrist, he chose a zigzag path that constantly moved them uphill while she kept up a slow but steady pattern of fire, alternating between disabling the vehicles and potshots to keep the bad guys in hiding instead of shooting. Within minutes, the transportation was toast and at least two of them hit; one screaming in a high-pitched voice that made Darien's teeth ache.

Then they were at the crest of the hill, and, after one last shot that hit a gas tank of one of the trucks, causing it to explode in a fireball of flames and smoke, they turned and ran.

---

The helicopter hovered for a moment before dropping smoothly to the tarmac below, the wind-whipped rain not affecting the pilot at all. Hobbes waited impatiently for Murphy to open the door so he could deliver the goods to the 'Fish and then get back into the air. The door slid open finally and their little group bolted for the hangar to get under cover. Even in that short distance, they were drenched. Not that Hobbes cared in the least; he just wanted to get back and find his partner before Westgaard and his goons did.

"How soon can we get back in the air?" he asked of Murphy. Stevie... Steve - apparently, only Fallon called him Stevie - was on the phone already.

Murphy was looking over some data on a computer. "Dawn, if we're lucky."

"Dawn!" Hobbes shouted. "We need to get back there now!" Oh man, this was so frickin' screwed up.

"Agent Hobbes, I would love to accommodate you, but I can do nothing about the weather." Murphy waved at the monitor. "The storm system should be gone by 0600, but for now we're grounded." He looked over at Steve, who was frowning and raking his fingers through his hair, the phone still up against his ear.

"The GPS has them on the move as planned," Steve informed them. "Nikki'll set-up the data link and relay the GPS signal here."

Hobbes sighed, unable to hide the relief. Admittedly, there was no guarantee Fawkes was with O'Neill, but for now he'd assume he was, 'cause freaking out at these people wouldn't change a damn thing. "What're Westgaard's men doing?"

"Cloud cover is too thick. We can't see anything. Plan was to disable the vehicles, lose them and head to the rendezvous point," Steve outlined, snapping the phone shut.

"You call that a plan?" Hobbes sniped. "More like suicide by proxy."

Steve shrugged, clearly unconcerned. "It's worked before." He stripped off his wet clothing, revealing some impressive scars on his back and chest as he walked through a previously unnoticed door.

Outside there was a bright flash, swiftly followed by the low rumble of thunder. "Madre de dios," was the reaction of the pilot, Juanita, as she entered and removed her helmet. "We're not going anywhere till this clears," she stated unequivocally.

"What about ground vehicles? Jeeps, Humvees," Hobbes suggested, not yet ready to throw in the towel, though with the way his shirt and vest were dripping he could use one about now.

Murphy looked from Hobbes to Higgins and back again. "Aye, I suppose we could, but..."

Hobbes groaned.

"... the front is gonna hit their position within the hour. It's gonna be a washout, and if we're unlucky and hit a... a..." He turned to 'Nita for help.

"Arroyo," she supplied.

"We'll be in more trouble than them," he finished.

"Shit," Hobbes groused, knowing Murphy was right.

"You have a package to deliver. Do that, change into dry clothes, and meet us back here. We'll prep and be ready to move as soon as we can," Steve suggested as he came back into the main hangar area, pulling a dry shirt over his head.

It made sense, a lot of sense, in fact. Plus, Hobbes wanted to have a _chat_ with the Official about O'Neill's plan and the creative interpretation of need to know in this situation. But his worry, his fear, wouldn't let go. "Not good enough. My partner is out there alone..."

"Fallon's with him," Steve said, the irritation seeping into his words making it plain that he was getting tired of repeating himself.

"I don't trust her!" Hobbes shouted, which was effective in making everyone go breathlessly silent.

Finally, Murphy broke it with, "She knows that."

Higgins cleared his throat, and Hobbes turned away from what he'd thought was O'Neill's yes-man. "What?"

"It's going to take at least an hour for them to refuel. Let's hand off the package. If the Official wants us to go after Fawkes, he'll tell us," Higgins said, sounding like the voice of reason.

Hobbes wondered whose payroll the mook was on for one instant, before conceding he was right. "All right. If anything changes..."

"We'll keep you apprised of the situation," Murphy assured him.

And with that tacit agreement made, Hobbes walked out into the rain-filled night.

---

The far side of the hill was much steeper, and negotiating it was made trickier by being unable to see their feet. They were traveling at an angle, heading southeast and away from the mine. Away from civilization too, which Darien didn't much care for, but now wasn't really the time to question her about it. They needed to put some serious distance between themselves and the goons who would do their best to increase the number of orifices in their bodies by a factor of five. They stumbled their way down until finally on the comparably flat surface of the ground, but she didn't even pause to catch her breath, before continuing on in the same direction for about a mile.

Darien wished he was psychic or something because he had no clue what they were doing or where they were going, and it was obvious she had no plans to discuss it with him... every time he tried to ask she'd unceremoniously shush him. Of course, she was just as informative when she suddenly decided to stop. She pulled out of his grip and quickly moved out of reach.

"Crap. Fallon...," he tried to warn just as the Quicksilver fell away from her.

She moved to stand with a large scraggly bush that was pretty much the only cover nearby between her and those following them. The fact that it would do very little to actually hide her seemed unimportant as she pulled a spare clip from the holder under her right arm and exchanged it for the one in the Glock. She slammed it home with a solid _thunk_ that made her wince. "I need to orient and I doubt I can see the map through the... Quicksilver is it?"

Darien sighed and sidled up next to her, the Quicksilver cascading away from his body like spilled glitter. "Yeah, Quicksilver." As if she didn't remember the name, it was far more likely she was fishing for more info. He made a point to give her none. "What's this about a map?"

Out of another pocket, she produced one of those fancy hand-held GPS things, complete with built in monitor for showing maps and weather and who knew what else. On the top was a little monkey, which meant it was one of her modified models, and probably did a hell of a lot more than the standard ones you could buy at Camping World. "Oh, so your guys know where we are and can find us."

"Aye, but we need to make some distance first." She turned it on, clicked the buttons mounted on either side and rotated in an arc until facing the right direction. Due east of where they were. There wasn't much to see; a few miles of desert and another one'a those mini-mountains, bigger than the one they'd just climbed, is all. "This way." She waved at those distant hills.

"Uh, isn't that the wrong way?" he asked, figuring they'd head for civilization.

"Nay. We want to go east." She turned about, looking as irritated as her voice sounded.

"But Dulzura's back thataway." He waved vaguely towards the northwest. "It's only -what? - five, six miles, we can do that easy."

She closed her eyes, her right hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose as if she were working on a headache of monstrous proportions. "'Ow 'ave you managed to survive as an agent?"

"Huh?" was Darien's semi-intelligent response. Okay, what'd he done wrong now?

She sighed heavily. "Fawkes, don't you think that'd be the first place they'd look for us?"

Darien groaned at himself. Apparently, he'd switched his brain off at some point, and now is when he really needed to be paying attention. They were still in the midst of a life and death situation. Theirs. "Uh, yeah. Sorry. We'll stick with your plan for now."

She dimpled at him, somehow making it appear completely sarcastic, which was a nifty trick. "'Ow nice of ye." Then she was suddenly on alert, and a second later Darien knew why. Voices, raised voices coming in their direction. He squinted through the bush and spotted two goons, wearing familiar outfits heading in their direction at a fast walk.

Staying in line with the bush, she headed due east. "Time to go."

"Hell yes." He caught up with her and let the Quicksilver flow yet again. Thank god Claire had given him the cure else he'd've been doing the red-eyed mambo long ago. "We still leave footprints, y'know."

"I know. Don' worry 'bout it," she responded, staying within arm's reach and allowing Darien to maintain contact with a hand on her shoulder.

_'But they'll be able to follow us,'_ he wanted to say, yet refrained. '_Plan. She keeps saying she has a plan.'_ All right, so, supposing Westgaard splits his forces: some heading to Dulzura to cut them off and some following their trail. Or what they'll assume is a trail since they couldn't actually be seen. How did that help? Well, fewer men actually following them wasn't a bad thing. Maybe once it got dark she was going to try and lose their tail and call for a taxi ride home. Made sense, _some_ sense anyway. Didn't want to call for the helicopter and end up with an ambush situation with the good guys on the wrong end of it.

So, he had a choice: trust that she knew what she was doing even if she wasn't big on sharing or... or... he doubted he could _force_ her to do anything she didn't want to, but he could strike off on his own. Make a try for Dulzura and call Bobby once there.

_'But she's hurt.'_ That little voice in the back of his head, that blasted conscience that had prevented him from being anything more than a mediocre thief, reminded him. And seeing as he was now 'one of the good guys,' least according to Bobby, he couldn't in good conscience abandon her.

He could only hope he wouldn't regret his choice. Or have to hold the Quicksilver for too much longer, 'cause doing it took effort and concentration and he was already getting tired.

---

When Hobbes burst into the Official's office just after six p.m., it was with O'Neill's guard-dog right on his heels. Murphy hadn't given Hobbes any choice in the matter, only repeating that he was under orders to make sure Bobby and the package were delivered safely to the Agency. Hobbes' efforts to lose Murphy on the rainy traffic-clogged streets had been fruitless, which only fueled Hobbes' anger and frustration. Trouble was, taking it out on his boss would be far more likely to get him fired than anything else, even if the Fatman was as much to blame for the screw-up and the temporary loss of Fawkes as any of O'Neill's people.

Holding his temper as best he could, Hobbes strode over to the Official's desk, placed the canister and briefcase atop it and then stood there... waiting.

It was Eberts who spoke first. "Robert, you're dripping on the... Where is Darien?"

The Official's head snapped up from the ledger he'd been perusing. "Bobby." The single word made it clear he wanted answers and right now.

So did Bobby. "Why weren't me an' Fawkes in on the _entire_ plan?" He wasn't about to give any answers without getting some in return.

The Official made an end run around Bobby instead. "Mr. Murphy?"

"He's with Fallon. Several miles southeast of the mine entrance," Murphy answered calmly, as Hobbes twisted about to glare at the larger man.

"And how is it Fawkes ended up with Ms. O'Neill?" the Official asked with an audible sigh.

"Fallon was shot while confronting Westgaard - as planned - and Agent Fawkes took it upon himself to attempt a rescue, after delivery of the package to Agent Hobbes." Murphy seemed to radiate a sense of irony over the entire thing. "I escorted Agent Hobbes out of the mine and back to your Agency."

"I see," the Official stated, not appearing overly concerned that Fawkes had gone missing. "Did she succeed?"

Murphy smiled broadly. "Yes. You'll receive copies once we've uploaded the images to our system."

Hobbes was officially confused. "Images? What images?"

After a glance at the Official, Eberts responded, "Part of our agreement with Ms. O'Neill was photographs of Mr. Westgaard, if at all possible."

It wasn't difficult for Hobbes to figure out that pics of Mister Invisible Terrorist would be a major coup for the Agency. And it also explained why no one had come after him and Murphy when they made their escape. O'Neill and Fawkes were now a major threat to Westgaard's anonymity, and when he caught up with them... "Crap," Hobbes muttered. Fawkes was in no more or less trouble than before. The bad guys wanting to kill the good guys was part of the business. The photojournalist routine by O'Neill, however, didn't explain why he and Fawkes were left out of the loop on the second objective of the mission.

"How come you're not asking about Papadopoulos?"

The Official gazed blandly back, but Eberts' shifty eyes twitched just enough.

"You never expected us to arrest any of them, did you?" Hobbes' tone could be nothing but accusatory.

The Official chuckled dryly. "Let's just say the odds were against it from the start."

Hobbes shook his head, confused as much as anything else. "The odds weren't great, but there weren't..." he trailed off. "She lied, didn't she? To sell the plan. That little bitch."

Wrong word. Murphy snapped to his full height and suddenly appeared exactly as dangerous as Hobbes suspected him of being. He wondered what branch of service he'd been in. Not RAF, that's for sure. Royal Marines maybe - the badasses of the British military. How the hell did a Marine end up working for a merc?

"Fallon did _not_ lie," Murphy stated; an open challenge that gave Hobbes the opportunity to get beaten to a bloody pulp.

"That is correct," Eberts was quick to agree and forestall an incident that could ruin any potential relationship between the two groups. "Her people retrieved more intel after the meeting and brought it to our attention."

"And you... modified the plan and just forgot to fill in me and Fawkes," Hobbes summed up in irritation.

"No, I didn't change a thing," the Official said.

Hobbes felt and fought the sudden urge to throttle his boss, and only the fact that he wasn't currently suffering from a touch of the madness held him back. "_That_ wasn't the plan me and Fawkes were in on," he shouted, slamming his hands onto the desktop.

The Official gave him a baleful stare. "You didn't need to know," was the icy cold response, and Hobbes swallowed hard in reaction, but didn't back down.

"Well maybe if we had, Westgaard wouldn't be on a Fawkes hunt right now," Hobbes snarled, his voice low and threatening.

The response came from behind him.

"Fallon does know what she's doing, Agent Hobbes." Murphy's reminder only upped the heat of Hobbes' anger. He turned about and went after Murphy, who didn't so much as flinch.

"Why?" Hobbes asked, voice rising to a bellow. "Why'd she deal to be there?"

"Ms. O'Neill had her reasons, Robert, and the Official did not feel it conflicted with our goals," Eberts explained. Not that the answer really explained anything.

"Not good enough," Hobbes snapped while Murphy remained stoically silent.

"Bobby," the Official barked.

"No. I wanna know what stupidity my partner is gonna get killed over." Hobbes was gonna get his answers one way or another.

"Ask him, he figured it out," Murphy replied, his voice a low burr.

That made Hobbes take a virtual step back. He _knew_ it. Fawkes had... wait a second, maybe Fawkes hadn't been making time with O'Neill. Maybe he'd done a little invisible recon and got them the info they needed to break the case. Hobbes' anger evaporated in an instant. He wasn't sure which was worse; his sudden distrust of Fawkes or the scene he'd just made. It wasn't O'Neill or her peoples' fault that he and Fawkes weren't aware of the entire plan. The deal for photos and O'Neill playing bait musta been made after he and Fawkes had been dismissed from the room.

With a sigh, he turned away from Murphy and back towards the pair at the far end of the room. "Chief, can I go find Fawkes... and O'Neill," he added hastily. "It don't matter how good O'Neill is, Fawkes is a trouble magnet."

The Official chuckled. "True, very true. Mr. Murphy, any chance you can assist?"

"Not till the weather clears."

Which was the same answer Murphy'd given Hobbes not so long ago.

"Chief..."

"Hobbes, I'm not going to waste favors or the budget on a no-win situation."

Hobbes opened his mouth to speak, but the Official interrupted him. "If his people won't fly, few others will."

"The Coast Guard is trained for this," Bobby reminded his boss.

"Robert, don't you think their time is better spent rescuing any boaters who may run into trouble?" Eberts' question was spoken in perfect schoolmarm, and was an effective admonishment.

"But..."

"Bobby," the Official began, sounding very tired of the discussion, "Darien has managed to learn some survival skills during his time here. Trust him to use them."

Hobbes nodded, realizing that arguing would get him nothing else right now.

"Yes, sir."

---

A day in which you learn something is never wasted, and today Darien was learning that holding the Quicksilver nonstop for well over an hour, while alternating between a fast walk and an all out run, was tiring. Very tiring. He'd suggested they stop a few times, check their bearings, sit for just five frickin' minutes, but she was insistent and so they kept moving. Those mountains slowly growing larger, proving, at least, that they were making progress. The few times Darien had spared a second to look over his shoulder there had always been figures following them, and encouraging Darien to agree with her wish to keep going, if only temporarily.

But now... now the world was twisting violently about him. He stumbled, slamming hard into Fallon, caught himself, legs spread wide as his head swung down to dangle about his knees. The Quicksilver fell away as he braced his hands on his thighs, gulped for air, and tried to keep his lunch in his stomach.

No longer having to hold the Quicksilver seemed to ease the worst of the dizziness. "Crap," he muttered as he straightened. His head still throbbed, like he'd bruised it on the inside.

Just then something cold swept his feet out from under him, sending him to the ground; his ass, then the back of his already aching head making a solid impact with the hard-packed dirt. For the longest time the world went dark and he was unable to focus on anything. Then he blinked and the stars came out, wheeling and spinning against the velvet gray clouds above.

_'Wait. That doesn't make any sense. You can't see stars in clouds.'_ He levered himself up onto his elbows and the stars faded from his sight. He was just in time to see the Quicksilver drop from Fallon, who was crouched awkwardly, her gun pointed at him. Even he could read her well enough to know that it was anger burning in the depths of those green eyes.

This was awfully familiar. Fallon seemed to have this fondness for pointing loaded weapons at him. "What?" he whined; his stomach churning unhappily.

She slowly stood upright, her left arm hanging uselessly at her side. "I've killed men for less, ya bleedin' gobshite." She took two menacing steps in his direction.

_'Killed? What the hell did I do to her?'_ "C'mon, you used hypos on the guards. You ain't likely to shoot me now," he pointed out, pushing himself to a sitting position a hand going to the back of his head to find there was already a fair-sized goose egg forming.

"For ye, I'll gladly make an exception," she snarled, clearly beyond pissed. It was also clear she was in a great deal of pain.

"Are you all right?"

She gave a harsh bark of laughter. "I've been shot, we're in the desert with no food and limited water and being followed by some wankers that'll kill us if they catch us. Care to rephrase the question?"

Okay, so, she had a point, but with his head ringing thanks to his recent assisted fall, his stomach still arguing with him over just where its contents should be, and his coccyx hurting from the less than cushioned landing zone, he wasn't in much of a forgiving mood. "Thought you had a plan," he sneered, rubbing the back of his head as he stood up. Her gun tracked his movement, her arm wavering only the slightest bit.

"Aye, I do, and ye best be hoping I'm in a mood to let ye tag along," she growled, fumbling with her left hand in one of the many pockets. She came up with the GPS handheld, which looked worse for wear. "Bleedin' hell." She managed to get the gun back into the holster with her right hand, and then used both to examine the device closely.

"Fallon?" He stepped towards her; a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he really hoped wasn't the return of the nausea.

"I bloody well landed on it," she groused, then lashed out with her right hand, nailing him solidly on the shoulder.

He stumbled back a couple steps, his hand going to the spot in an effort to ease the bright burst of pain. "Ouch," he grouched, rubbing the shoulder. "What was _that_ for?"

"'Ow do you think I broke it ye banjaxed bouzzie?" She lifted it up for him to see. The LCD screen had a series cracks running across it. The screen was attempting to show something, but it was scrambled beyond comprehension.

Uh... he had to rewind the mental video tape of the last few minutes to figure out what she was referring to, and when he did he cringed. He vaguely remembered stumbling into her when the world had decided to do its tilt-a-whirl routine on him. It must have been hard enough to send her to the ground where she landed on the piece of gear, smashing it. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get them to focus better with his head still ringing like a chime.

"Oh crap. Is the GPS still working?" he asked. It was one thing to be out here, knowing Big Brother was keeping an eye on them; it was another entirely to realize they were completely alone and on their own.

"I can't be sure without looking inside, but I'm guessing not." Her arm dropped back to her side, her grip on the GPS loosening, but she was quick to prevent it from falling to the ground and stuffed it back into the pocket. This time he noticed the blood on her wrist when the jacket shifted.

"Damn it, you're bleeding again." He closed the distance between them to help, but she backed away, preventing him from coming more than a step or two away from her.

"I'm fine," she said, focusing past him and off into the distance.

Darien spun about, the three mooks who had been on their tail all afternoon easy to see. Too far away to do anything right now, but closing the distance swiftly. "Oh man, we are so dead." He turned back to face Fallon. "I... I don't think I can Quicksilver any more. It... I'm just not used to doing it for long periods of time," he admitted with great reluctance. He needed her to understand that he wasn't being stubborn, that physically he and the gland were tapped out for now. Of course, if hurling all over her shoes were the only way to make his point, he'd Quicksilver and aim for the toes.

"Don' matter," she informed him as she spun about to face the not so distant mountains, attempting to orient without the map or sun to aid her.

"'Don't matter'?" Darien echoed, as the wind suddenly gusted, kicking up dust and grit which peppered his exposed skin like sandpaper. He wondered how long the wind had been blowing or when the clouds had turned that ominous near-black color. "Your plan just fell apart."

She glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Nay, we're right on schedule."

The flash of lighting was brilliant, turning the darkening skies white for an instant. It was quickly followed by rumble of thunder that he felt in his bones, the vibration was so low, and a second after that the heavens opened up, the deluge flattening his hair to his head instantly.

"You factored the weather into your plan?" He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the torrential downpour.

"Aye, I did," she confirmed, ignoring the water plastering her clothes to her body. "Come on."

"But what about our friends?" He waved back in the direction of the trio, which he could no longer see through the sheeting rain.

"What 'bout 'em? Not like there's a trail any more." She strode away, not caring that the visibility had been reduced to mere feet.

She was right, the footprints they'd left were being pounded out of existence by the falling rain. Well, yay for their team. Of course, the trade-off was being drenched. Hunted versus soaked. He pondered his choices and decided that he'd take soaked any day of the week. He jogged to catch up with Fallon, who seemed to be doing her damnedest to ignore him. He waggled a finger at her. "You're good."

She tilted her head slightly. "Don't act so surprised."

_'Oof, where'd I hear that line before? Oh yeah, Monroe.'_ That so did not bode well for any future working relationship. _'Screw it. I'll worry about bruising her ego tomorrow; there are other things to deal with now.'_ Now, he wanted her to hold up so he could stop the bleeding, though Quicksilver and rain probably wouldn't get along very well. He also wanted to rest, really rest for just a few minutes, but knew they didn't dare. They had to take advantage of the cover provided by the weather change and hopefully make it to wherever it was she had planned to go. They'd been lucky that it'd been a cloudy and relatively warm day; it would have been very different had the sun been baking them in their decidedly dark outfits. Thirst would have been the least of their worries. Heat stroke was a serious threat out here anytime of the year. Speaking of thirst... he could use a nice cold beer right about now. He tried to peer through the gloom the rain had created... Rain. _ 'Duh.'_

Darien stopped, tipped his head back, and opened his mouth to let Mother Nature take care of his dry palate and scratchy throat. Once he had his fill, he flung his hair out of his eyes, noting absently he was in need of a haircut, and focused on Fallon who had stopped to wait for him.

"Ye done?"

_'Okay, she's still ticked off.'_ Darien couldn't help but notice, but this was probably not the best time to ask her about it. "Uh, yes? Look, I'm sor..."

She spun about on her heel and walked away, ignoring his feeble attempt at an apology. _'Shutting up, sir!' _With a put-upon sigh, Darien trudged along behind.


	9. Chapter 9

---

"_What_?" Hobbes shouted. "What did you say?" This couldn't be possible; something else couldn't have gone wrong on this mission. It was as if the whole damn thing was jinxed from the start. Well, at least they knew Papadopoulos wasn't going to be causing trouble at the Bacchanalia. What with being dead and all. So, that merited a check in the good column.

Murphy scrubbed his face in his hands. "We just lost the GPS signal."

Hobbes blew air out forcefully and collapsed into the nearest chair. They were back at the hangar, staying put until the weather cleared and they could go after Fawkes and O'Neill. The pilot and Steve were in the office, napping and watching TV respectively. Hobbes had been pacing restlessly, while Murphy did whatever he did on the long workbench where the computer was. Claire had been wandering about the sleek dark gray jet that took up about half the available space. It had corporate and expensive written all over it. Claire had insisted on coming along, playing the "I'm his doctor," card with all the skill of a card sharp. Bobby didn't bother to argue with her, knowing he would lose. When she decided she was going to do something, there was no stopping her. Plus, the Official had ordered it. Her field kit sat on the floor near the hangar door, awaiting the moment when they could leave.

Claire came around the far side of the plane, worry creasing her fair features. "Bobby, what does that mean?" She knew all that Bobby did, which wasn't nearly enough to satisfy either of them, but she'd been much relieved to know that they could at least keep distant tabs on her Kept.

"Nothin' good, Claire, that's for frickin' sure," Bobby grumbled, shooting a deadly glare in Murphy's direction.

"It could be nothing more than the GPS was damaged. They were still on the move when it went out," Murphy countered, obviously irritable over Hobbes' incessant complaints.

Claire moved to stand behind Bobby. "But how will we find them without it?"

"We know where the rendezvous point is. The GPS was just for back-up. If they aren't there when we arrive..."

Bobby interrupted Murphy's explanation. "We start at the end point and work our way back. Is there a back-up plan if we miss them?"

"Aye. They'll head to Dulzura. It'll be a hike, but doable," Murphy confirmed with a nod.

Hobbes grunted. "How's the weather looking?'

"The same; clearing out about dawn." Murphy's look turned serious. "I swear we'll be in the air the instant we can be."

"You're worried about her, aren't you?" Claire asked softly, clearly seeing what Bobby had missed, simply because his concern was focused on his partner and not the chick who'd gotten him into this mess in the first place. The hard look on Murphy's features could no longer hide the truth.

"Always," Murphy admitted. "But as she would point out, that's _my_ job."

Hobbes just sat there, not understanding what that was supposed to mean. Again, it was Claire who was able to discern the truth through the cryptic statement.

"She takes too many risks. More than you prefer, anyway." Claire's observation was dead on if the look on Murphy's face was any indication.

Then he chuckled, the tension easing. "That she does. But if there is one thing Fallon has learned to do over the years, it's survive. I swear she has more lives than a very lucky cat."

Hobbes and Claire exchanged a glance. They could only hope that Fallon's survival instincts could counter the effects of the unluckiest cat-burglar alive.

---

They finally reached the next big ripple in this section of desert just as the sky began to darken noticeably. At first, Darien thought it was another round of thunderstorms moving in until a glance at his watch revealed that somewhere behind the thick layer of clouds the sun was setting. Within minutes, it was going to be pitch black out here. And, it was still raining, though, considering the cover it was providing, he supposed it wasn't such a bad thing. However, he was soaked to the skin, his toes squished in his socks with every step, and his head still ached dully. _'Maybe she's got some aspirin stuffed into one'a those pockets.'_

Fallon stumbled and he set a hand on her shoulder to steady her. He couldn't imagine how she was still moving, knowing how badly she was hurt, but she wrenched herself away from him with an audible snarl.

"Hey, I was trying to help."

"I've 'ad more'n enough of your _help_," she said around harsh laughter.

_'Crap. She's still pissed,'_ he observed silently. He debated asking her what her problem was, but she beat him to the punch.

"Bet your boss will bloody well be pleased with 'ow things turned out," she grumbled as she pulled out the busted GPS in some vain hope of getting even a moment of functionality out of it.

Darien was confused, not at her attempt to figure out where the hell they were, but by her words. The Official was probably chewing Hobbes' limbs off, after starting with his ass, and trying to figure out how to reclaim his possession - the gland - without breaking the budget. Happy? No, Darien was pretty sure that happy was the last thing the 'Fish was.

She tucked the GPS away and closed her eyes. At a wild guess she was trying to reconstruct the big old 'you are here' map in her mind, complete with yellow star, that would give her a clue where 'here' was so they could get to 'there.' Absurdly, he wondered if they could even get there from here and had to rein in a snicker of amusement.

"Okay, I give up, why would the Official want me out here? You said yourself me tagging along wasn't part of your _plan_."

He suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a gun that was mere centimeters from the end of his nose. He hadn't even seen her pull the thing. Hell, she hadn't even opened up her eyes. Was she psychic or something?

"I've 'ad enough of being played by the likes of you," she told him in no uncertain terms.

Had enough was right. He'd certainly had enough of her pointing guns at him for no valid reason. He was tired, he was cranky, his head still hurt and, maybe most of all, he was on _her_ frickin' side in this mess and she kept trying to stuff that damn gun up his sinuses. Instead of responding with some snarky comment, he snapped his hands up, one circling her wrist, the other gripping the barrel of the gun and twisting it out of her hold. The final result being Darien in possession of a gun he barely knew how to use and her looking at him, head cocked to the side.

"Huh, I'm almost impressed," she finally said, her tone as bland as her continued gaze. "Ye can let go now."

"What? Oh," Darien mumbled as he released her wrist. "Now, what's this about me playing you?" He checked the safety, and twitched only slightly when he realized it was off, and flicked it on. He adjusted his grip so that he was holding it correctly.

"You can't think I wouldn't figure it out," she sneered. "Getting bolloxed might've made me stupid enough to trust you t'other night, but not this time."

Darien wiped his face in a vain attempt to keep the water from running into his eyes. "Fallon, what are you talking about?" He really had no clue and wanted this settled before the next time she pulled the gun and decided that shooting him would be the easiest way to deal with him.

She shook her head and began walking down the hillside at an angle that would take them deeper into the canyon that cut between the two mini-mountains. "Are ye gonna try an' tell me ye didn' come by my place t'other night for the sole purpose of finding something that I'd deal for?"

Actually, he could argue that, given he had intended to trade the Chrysalis info for it, but she was close enough for government work. And since he _had_ broken into her place, she was allowed to assume the worst. "Nope, not gonna tell you anything of the sort."

"You're good, I'll give ye that much." She'd lowered her voice, forcing him to move closer to hear her.

"Fallon, I didn't play you," he insisted.

"Fine, conned me then. That's more your style anyway." She dug into a pocket, produced that bright LED flashlight, and turned it on. It was needed, as darkness was settling swiftly about them. His Mag-lite wouldn't do much in this water-soaked gloom.

"Damn it, Fallon, I didn't con you," Darien shouted, which was more than enough to make her stumble to a stop and spin about to face him.

"Then what do ye call it? Not like it'd be too difficult for your Agency to put two and two together and figure out that I spend that day in me cups." She rolled her shoulders; the weight of the vest must be getting to her about now. "Ye show up, doing your best impression of a sweet, naïve dope and ye not only manage to get me to talk, but show up the next day with that exact info for trade. What would ye call it?" She stalked off, continuing down the slope.

Darien just stared at her back for a long moment, unable to say a thing. She had a point; from her perspective it most certainly did look like he had played her, though he hadn't. And now, him conveniently ending up with her out here... He'd been convicted on less evidence. No wonder she was royally pissed off and suspicious.

"Okay, so it doesn't look good, but I'm telling you..." He stopped when she tossed him a glare over her shoulder that threatened bodily harm, gun or no gun in his possession. "Yes, I knew about the anniversary, but not which day. They only gave me the bare bones info on you."

"And that keeps you from finding more by yourself, 'ow?"

_'Crap. Does she have to come up with a new angle every single time?'_ "Shit, I couldn't be bothered to read the file on Papadopoulos. Do you really think I'd go to all that effort just to find out you get drunk on April 20th every year?"

She tripped over something in the dark, but this time when Darien reached out to assist she let him; one hand grasping her good arm and holding her steady until she had her feet securely beneath her. "Are ye trying to tell me it was a coincidence?"

He shrugged. "Dumb luck? When I showed up at work they had a file on Westgaard." He held out the gun, butt first, more as a peace offering than anything else. "I took a chance he was the same guy as your 'Tor.' Hell, I figured you'd be happy to have the info. Who knew you'd be so damn cynical about the whole thing."

She snorted and made an effort at giving him a smile, her teeth flashing for an instant in the gloom. "I've seen far too many realities of this world to be anything but cynical. Ye 'ave no idea the petty things people will try to destroy each other for, the manufactured excuses for war, the things done in the name of god and country." She shook her head violently. "I roll in the steaming refuse of it every day."

Darien could only imagine the secrets she held, given the ones he'd learned since coming to the Agency. He'd been doing this for a couple years: she'd been doing this most of a decade. It made him wonder what he'd be like come that time. "So walk away. Go back home to your family. Get out, while you still can."

"Too late for that. The filth is imbedded so deeply that it's stained me soul. There's no going back, no walking away for me." She didn't sound resigned; more like she'd accepted the truth a long time ago.

"You saying there's no hope? No chance for redemption?" Darien asked, not certain which of them he was referring to.

She laughed, leading the way down, the hillside growing steeper with every step. "Nay. And I'm not lookin' to be saved. Can't see ye wantin' to play savior anyway."

Darien couldn't help himself and chuckled softly. "Yeah, the halo's more'n a little tarnished, can't argue with that." Had to admit he'd kinda gotten used to the hero gig, even on the days when the white hat didn't fit quite right. "But I still think there's a happily ever after out there."

She stiffened. "The ye'd be a fecking fool. The cavalry does not ride in, the knight in shining armor does not rescue the fair maiden, good does not always triumph over evil." She glanced back at him, her voice hard. "The 'ero and the 'eroine do not ride off into the sunset and there are no 'appy endings."

_'Damn.'_ Cynical was too tame a word for how she saw the world, though if he'd had her life he might feel the very same way. The rain suddenly fell harder, the pounding atop his skull making his head throb dully and reminding him he was cold, wet, tired, lost and, oh yeah... wet. _Very_ wet. So, instead of asking exactly why she had such a crappy outlook on life he changed the subject. "So, um, where are we going?"

The change was the right move, as her shoulder relaxed under his hand. "I wish I knew," she muttered, just barely loud enough for him to hear. "We're off course and without the GPS I can't find our target."

"Target?"

"Aye, I... we were going to hole up at the Whitney University Excavation site. It's funded by the school and used for technology research. The mine is closed this time of the year, but it's high tech, like Westgaard's. We'd have been able to dry off and 'ide in comfort. And I 'ave... 'ad the _keys_ to the door."

Right now, dry sounded like heaven to Darien. "So, what are we doing?"

"Whitney isn't he only mine in the area, just the most modern. I'm 'oping we'll find another one we can break into. I... I'm just about done in," she admitted with great reluctance.

"And you think there's one around here," Darien stated, knowing her supposition was as good as any he could come up with right now.

"Aye." Her feet went out from under her, and this time Darien was unable to prevent her from falling. She landed hard on her butt; a curse that must have been colorful escaping, but it was in a language he didn't recognize. The flashlight went spinning down the hill into the darkness. It remained lit, fetching up against some more solid bit, and lighting up the ground for several yards. Since the light wasn't going anywhere for now, he crouched cautiously down next to Fallon, who hadn't bothered to even try standing.

"Comfy?" he asked, aiming for humor.

"Well, me feet seem t'approve," she answered after a moment to think about it. "'Owever, me arse is not enjoying the experience."

_'He shoots. He scores.'_ It was his turn to be impressed, she was holding it together much better than he would have. Hissy fit with a side of whining would have been his modus operandi after a day like this one. "Come on." He offered her his shoulder for leverage. "Up you go." Together they made their way towards the light, picking their way carefully in the near-blackness. Darien bent down to get the light and, as he lifted it, there was a flash off to the right. Disbelieving, he shined the light about till he saw it again. "Did you...?"

"Aye. Could it be more of your dumb luck?" she asked. "'Cause I was beginning to think this job was jinxed."

"God, I hope so. The dumb luck, not the jinx," he clarified. He was careful to keep the light focused on the whatever it was and prayed it wasn't some stray soda can bleached to mirror brightness in the desert sun. Turned out that was exactly what it was, along with other ancient remnants of some party or something. But just 10 yards away was exactly what they'd been looking for.

A mine entrance.

---

Picking the standard off the shelf Masterlock had taken mere seconds, and they wasted no time getting inside and out of the weather. Ten feet down the near claustrophobic tunnel was a room. A room no one had been in for a few years, at a guess, considering there was a noticeable layer of dust over everything. The footprints of the last visitors could still be seen in the dirt, the treads blurred only minimally by the passage of time. There was a mismatched pair of bench seats, probably swiped from old pick-up trucks, being used as sofas. Milk crates served as tables and shelving, ancient metal coolers and lidded 50 gallon drums doubled as vermin-free storage.

Darien stripped off the wet gloves, poked about, and came up with an oil lantern, which he lit with the Zippo lighter he carried around, and then, in one of the drums, he discovered blankets. Old comforters, army/navy store wool, fleece; all well-abused but serviceable and smelling of nothing worse than dust and time. A groan dragged his attention from the prize to Fallon, who leaned against the wall and was trying to remove the gun holster one-handed. He grabbed one of the blankets and moved to her side. He was going to toss it about her shoulders, but she shook her head.

"Need to get this off first."

He knew she meant the vest and not the gun holster. "Let me," he insisted, her fair skin was a shade or two paler than it should be. They were both cold and wet and just damn lucky the temperature outside had been reasonably warm, or they'd've been in a lot more trouble. He was chilled, but not shivering... yet. Their constant movement had kept the blood flowing enough to counter any potential hypothermia that could have occurred. But now that they had stopped... even though they were under cover, they were at a greater risk. They had to get warm and dry and soon.

As swiftly as he could, he got the holster off, stripped her out of the jacket, and removed the dead weight of the Kevlar vest. With the exception of the gun, he just left everything in a pile on the floor to deal with after he had her squared away. The gun he tucked into his jacket pocket, strangely not feeling safe without it near to hand. He got the blanket about her just as her teeth began to chatter. Not good. Not good at all.

The front of her black t-shirt was damp, but not soaked, the vest having protected her somewhat; however, on the left side, it was far more due to blood than rain based on the red-tinged smears on her arms and his hands. Without bothering to consult her, he pulled the collar of her shirt aside, the hole not big enough to provide an adequate view in the dim light of the lantern.

Blood was still oozing from the wound, combining with the water dripping from her hair and leaving trails of bright red down her chest. "Crap, Fal, how're you still standing?"

She stiffened. "Don' call me that."

"What?" he asked as he examined her. Her skin was cool to the touch, proving her body temp was most likely down a degree or two. "Oh, Fal. Why not?"

"Just... No one calls me that anymore, all right?" She sucked in a breath when he set his fingers a touch too close.

He met her eyes. "All right. We gotta stop the bleeding, or come morning..." he trailed off, not really wanting to contemplate that scenario.

"Aye. Jus' do it." She braced her back against the wall and Darien didn't bother to hesitate.

Quicksilvering two fingers, he placed them over the bullet hole and held them there till the frost had turned the leaking blood pink, the wound frozen shut again. This time she wasn't able to maintain the stoic silence of earlier. With a whimper like that of a mortally wounded animal, she endured his poor efforts to help. When he was done, she just about collapsed, her head sagging forward onto his shoulder. They stayed that way for several minutes, his hands at her waist to keep her upright until she was ready to move to a more comfortable location.

"Feck, that 'urts," she grumbled as she raised her head.

"Come on, you need to rest for a bit." He steered her towards what looked like the more comfortable of the two makeshift couches.

"Nay, what I need to do is get to work," she argued even as she lowered herself onto the cracked Naugahyde.

"Work? On what? Your big dance number?" Darien asked, fetching another blanket to toss over her.

She snickered softly and began untying her boots. Dry toes sounded like a good idea to Darien as well, and now that they weren't out in the deluge, he had a quick way to do so, mostly anyway. It wasn't something he'd admit to practicing during his free time, as it wasn't a situation that came up too often - like needing to Quicksilver just one eye - but it was looking to have paid off on this occasion.

Willing the Quicksilver, he made sure it stayed _under_ his clothes. This caused the water soaking the cotton to swiftly freeze. He let the Quicksilver flake away and shifted, which caused the ice crystals that currently infused the cloth to shatter and do a fair imitation of a short-lived snowstorm. The clothes were still damp, his socks still sopping, since there was little point in doing them with his boots still on and he'd deal with that presently, but he was no longer dripping as he walked. His hair, however, was a mess and hung down about his face. He knew that when it dried, it'd curl, and that was so the last thing he wanted her to see.

"That... that was very cool," Fallon declared, sounding truly impressed.

"Want to give it a go?" he offered. He wasn't quite sure how to manage it, as Quicksilvering her would just trap the water on the inside, cooling it maybe, but not freezing it. He could, he supposed, Quicksilver himself and... hug her. That'd freeze the water on one side anyway. Maybe. It worked better the other way, though. He knew that much from experience.

Her eyes widened and after considering his offer for a few moments then said, "Ah, while a creative way to get into me pants, I'll have to pass, but thanks for the offer."

Darien laughed softly. It was tough to argue with that. "How about some body heat, then?" There was something in her eyes; suspicion, distrust, it didn't matter. "I'll behave. Scout's Honor." He held up three fingers to show his sincerity.

"Aye, till I'm warm," she acceded as she shivered violently.

_'Well, that was awfully easy. She must be worse off than I thought.'_ Darien grabbed yet another blanket, this one a thick comforter that was in better shape than most of the rest. "Where's the fire? We're safe, right?"

"Maybe. No guarantee they ain't still looking for us," she informed him. "Need to try an' fix the GPS. Let my people know where we are, if at all possible."

That made sense, as it would be nice if the cavalry had some frickin' idea where they needed to ride to. "Can you? I mean, it's not like we can run down to the nearest Radio Shack and pick up parts."

She shrugged. "Won't know till I look at it. I'm hoping to kludge something together that'll at least get a signal out."

"And if you can't fix it? Is there a Plan B?" He'd watched more than enough _Junkyard Wars_ to know what 'kludge' meant.

"Aye. Head to Dulzura and make contact." She pulled the blankets closer about her.

Darien plopped down next to her, and proceeded to pull off his boots to give his socks their turn at much needed freeze-drying. Settling back, he slung an arm about her shoulders and pulled her practically onto his lap. She was either too cold or too tired to resist. He tucked the blanket about both of them, hoping to bake her dry if nothing else.

"But won't Westgaard and his little buddies be waiting for us?"

"Doubtful. Come dawn they'll realize they've missed us and will have to fall back and regroup. I'm certain Murphy will be in the air as soon as the weather clears, looking for me... for us," she corrected. She sagged against him, wet hair dampening his so recently dried shirt.

"Crap. Hobbes is probably pulling out the rest of his hair," Darien muttered aloud, knowing that was far too mild a description of what Bobby was most assuredly doing to himself for losing his partner. Part of Darien was wishing he hadn't rushed off without thinking the whole thing through; he could be home, in his own bed, all dry and toasty warm instead of sitting here in a dusty old cave that could very well collapse about his ears without warning. Okay, so he was alone with a woman, who wasn't Alex, for the first time in months. That could be looked upon as a plus, except for the small issue of her being soaking wet, cold, injured - god only knew how much blood she had lost - and very likely to shoot him someplace painful and permanently damaging should he give even a hint of trying something. Nope, this would not qualify as romantic no matter how liberal your interpretation.

Feeling the need to fill the silence he asked, "So, how're you liking San Diego?"

Fallon started, then laughed softly. "It's been interesting. Very interesting."

---

_'Bloody hell. Is there anything that isn't damaged?'_ Fallon glared at the innards of the GPS, which were laid out on the flat cooler lid before her, with a frown on her face. It wasn't looking good. Not only had the LCD screen cracked, the circuit board behind it had as well, severing a host of needed connections. Not that she was too surprised by what she'd found. The bruise on her thigh in the shape of the handheld was mute testimony to the force with which she'd hit that fair-sized rock when she'd fallen. Come morning she was going be stiff as well as sore.

The damage was not repairable with the few items she had on hand. Half the delicate welds and wires were broken and the battery - not the typical AAs - had been drained dry due to a short when the LCD went. That was why she'd gotten an image the first time, useless as it had been, but not the second; the battery had been long dead by then and any hope of recovery had now fled.

On the upside, the section of circuit board that was the actual GPS appeared to be undamaged, the lack of power, and some loose wires, keeping it offline. Maybe if she rewired a direct connect from the GPS to a new power supply she could get a limited signal out that would give Murphy enough data for a location. What to use for a new power supply? She mulled the collection of items in her possession; needing to figure out which one she was going to have to sacrifice this time. There was the LED flashlight that she needed to be able to do the actual work, the lantern and Fawkes' Mag-lite just weren't bright enough for the nit-picky work she was going to have to attempt. There was the mini-digital camera. _That_ she'd made certain was undamaged as soon as Fawkes was out cold. It would indeed have more than enough juice to power the GPS, but only at the loss of the pictures she had taken. It could store up to a dozen high resolution images, but the memory was dependant on the battery; if it failed, or was removed, the chances of retrieving the photos became infinitesimally slim. With miniaturized gear, there was always a trade-off. No, those pictures were more important than getting rescued in a timely fashion. She had other options yet.

Speaking of time... She focused on the watch embedded in the wide leather cuff on her left wrist, and sighed as she noted it was time for another perimeter check. Not that there was much of a perimeter; just the tunnel and the area about the entrance. She made her way down the tunnel by feel; the light leaking from the room was more than enough for her to see where she was going. Given the rain was still bucketing down, thunder rumbling near enough to knock dust loose every now and then, she wasn't keen on actually going outside and getting soaked again. She was barely warm enough as it was. So, she cautiously poked her head out the door, staying under the overhang, and checked the area. She had wiggled back into the gun holster, but her left arm, while mobile, hurt like the divil to move, and she wanted avoid bleeding again if at all possible. Twice was more than enough of Fawkes' little patch job. _That_ made her smile for an instant. The rumors _were_ true. That boyo could turn invisible.

Once certain the area was clear, she secured the door, musing over which of the many theories of how he did it were true as she shuffled back to their haven. They varied from gene manipulation, to implantation of something that acted as a reservoir, to ingestion of a cocktail of drugs. Not that the how really mattered. Just confirmation that Darien Fawkes could indeed turn invisible would keep _the fourth monkey_ solvent for years. She'd never inquired why the various parties were interested in the information, since she had never expected to encounter the man in person and her initial probes into the Agency had yielded little. A'course now she knew far, _far_ more than she should, and she idly wondered if the Official would try to shut her down before deciding she didn't really care. She could always pick up and start over again. Although, truth to be told, coming to San Diego was turning out to be damn good for business. They were turning people away simply because they were booked solid. Seemed like everyone wanted dirt on someone else, and she wasn't talking Mrs. Smith looking for the brasser Mr. Smith was tupping, or Hollywood-type moguls wanting some blackmail to get the latest starlet for their film. Hell, something like that would be a nice change of pace. From the power-mad to the power-hungry, they were flocking to her doorstep, looking for that one piece of information they couldn't seem to acquire on their own.

A deep basso rumble that shook the walls about Fallon made her realize she was doing nothing more than doddering about. She had work to do.

Fawkes was snoring softly, curled up awkwardly on the nearby truck seat, and looking much better than he had earlier. The boyo had looked right shook after dumping her on her arse. While she hadn't meant to eat his head off, she'd been in a fecking lot of pain and not thinking straight. She could be quite the puss face when conditions were right, and today almost nothing had gone _right_. By the time she was feeling reasonably warm and dry, he'd been completely flah'ed out and she'd told him to get some sleep. She didn't need him coming down with a bad dose along with her. Come morning he might be their only hope of getting rescued.

His right arm was flung out, revealing the emerald snake tattoo that was poorly hidden by his watch band. Maybe she'd get him one like hers, a nice wide leather cuff. She snorted softly as she realized they both wore their watches on the wrong hand for the sole purpose of disguising their tattoo. The phoenix on her left wrist, however, was completely hidden by the well worn leather. The current watch face was one of many that that had been mounted into the cuff over the many years. It was a combination one, with a score of digital and analog functions... and had a fair sized battery to run it all.

With a sigh, she sat back down before the makeshift work table and removed the watch. With some luck, she'd have the kludged together GPS ready in a couple of hours.


	10. Chapter 10

---

Darien felt the hand on his arm, but was only semi-conscious at best, and not even close to being truly aware of his surroundings, so he grumbled, "Five more minutes."

The hand shifted to his shoulder and gave him a good shake. "Fawkes, wake up."

The voice was one he didn't recognize, especially when he was expecting Hobbes, who was the one usually stuck with the onerous task of hauling Darien's lazy ass out of bed. He cracked open an eye to see a pair of unfamiliar green ones looking at him in the dim lighting of the... cave? "Why am I in a cave?"

"Bloody hell, Fawkes, would ye star 69 reality here?"

Darien blinked, recalling using a very similar phrase, in essentially that tone of voice, on his brother shortly after learning exactly how much of a guinea pig he'd become when he'd said, "yes." However, since Kevin had never had green eyes and was most certainly dead, Darien forced his mind to focus. "Fallon." He pushed himself upright, rubbing his face. "What time is it?" he asked, feeling like he'd shut his eyes mere seconds ago.

She gently grasped his wrist and turned it over to read his watch. "Almost 0200," she informed him around a yawn.

Damn. Not seconds, he'd been out almost six hours. He was still tired, but better, his headache all but gone. "Any luck?"

"I think so." She looked exhausted, which she had every right to be given the day they'd had.

"Sit." He waved at her, and after a moment she did so, groaning softly as she lowered herself to the crappy Naugahyde. "You all right?" he asked, pretty certain she wasn't.

"Fine. Just need some sleep." She withdrew the gun from the holster and handed it to him. "If ye have to use this, shoot to kill."

He nodded grimly, hoping it wouldn't come to that, but was as prepared as he could be to do what was necessary should the worst happen and they were discovered by the bad guys. "What's the weather like?"

"Still lashing mightily. Had some thunder for a while, but it passed. I've been checking every 20 minutes or so." She tugged at the blanket he was sitting on, so he stood, leaving the couch cum bed to her. She was shivering again, but nowhere near as bad as earlier, even though it was rather cozy in the cave.

"Lemme take a look at..."

"Nay," she snapped. "I jus' want to rest a bit."

"Fallon..."

"Wake me at 0530," she ordered as she shifted in an attempt to get comfortable. Clearly, she had no interest in having him do his Florence Nightingale impression unless absolutely necessary.

"Oh-five-thirty, got it." He made sure the safety was on and shoved the gun down the front of his pants. Her eyes drifted shut for a second, then popped back open.

"Ah, if ye need to hit the bog and don' want to get sopping, there's a room 'bout 15 feet down the tunnel that ye can use."

Well, that was interesting. He wished he could pull off statements like that without even the tiniest hint of embarrassment. Then again, she could have just left him fumbling in the dark, so he called this an attitude improvement on her part, made him think she was treating him as an equal and not some inconvenience she was stuck with. "Good to know," he replied, playing it just as cool as she had. He hadn't been looking forward to getting soaking wet just to take a leak. "Anything else?"

She shook her head.

"Then get some sleep." He gave her a wry smile. "I can handle this, y'know."

"I know," she agreed, then, very gingerly lay down on her right side, pulling the blanket closer about her. Within minutes her breathing slowed and her body visibly relaxed.

Darien turned away, looking over the room, but other than their shed clothes having been piled neatly, nothing had been moved, which meant there were still some containers to investigate. First things first, though, nature was calling... loudly.

---

Darien turned the page, caught up in the heroic goings on of the Avengers. Thor was doing battle with some giant beast, his hammer Mjolnir returning to his hand after every throw. Darien had found the stash of comic books and magazines (mostly Playboy and Penthouse) in one of the other coolers, along with an ancient dime bag of marijuana. Based on the dates on the covers, no one had been out here since June of 1998. Personally, he would have preferred some soda or junk food, but aside from an open bag of petrified Doritos, there'd been nothing. He _had_ found an old tin cup that had once been part of a Boy Scout mess kit, the _fleur de lis_ still visible on the bottom; and, after determining that it probably didn't contain anything that would kill him, stuck his arm out into the rain while holding it and used it to drink his fill. He only wished he'd found something larger, 'cause Fallon was certain to be thirsty when she woke up, but it was better than nothing. Of course, the near constant growls from his abdomen were an annoying reminder that he hadn't eaten since noon yesterday. Not that missing a meal or two would cause him any undue harm, by any means, so he did his best not to think about it.

He read a couple more pages, the monster not being vanquished without some serious damage to the good guys, then set it aside to do another security check. Other than the rain, there'd been nothing, no sign of life other than themselves. Even the usual desert critters had taken cover in this deluge. He could imagine the local newscast doing live reports about some hillside that had decided that the view from the top was no longer interesting, and that was now at the bottom, taking homes, and possibly lives with it. Between the quakes, fires and mudslides, it was a wonder anyone wanted to live in California.

The mine entrance was slightly recessed into the hillside, sturdy, if old, 12x12 inch posts framing the doorway. He opened the door just wide enough for his skinny frame to slip through and froze. A trio of glowing eyes could be seen through the rain spattered darkness. Two stared straight ahead, while the third roved about wildly. He watched them for several minutes, as they slowly grew larger. Finally, a low rumble of sound caused reality to snap back into place. _ 'Too many comic books. Sheesh.'_ The mystery creature suddenly resolved itself into nothing more than a truck, with a spotlight scanning the hillside. It was a no-brainer who it had to be and who they were looking for. He had mere minutes before they spotted the entrance, and there was little chance they wouldn't stop and investigate.

He noted the discarded lock and scooped it up. No point in making it even more obvious they were here, right? He pulled the door snugly shut and dashed back to the room, praying they wouldn't open the door, since his big ol' size twelves were leaving nice clear imprints that were a dead give away that _someone _was here.

If he had time, he'd figure out a way to erase them, but there wasn't any. He grabbed a blanket, tossed it haphazardly over their pile of belongings to hide them, and looked about for any other blatant signs of their habitation. Aside from tracks... not really. Thankfully both he and Fallon tended towards neat and meticulous - one of the more useful side-effects of Liz's mentoring - so, with the exception of the comic book he had been reading, and the blankets they were using, everything else had remained in their containers. He blew out the lamp; wincing at the fact he could do nothing about the lingering scent of burning oil in the air and, by the light of his flash, made his way over to Fallon.

He focused the light on her face, away from her eyes, and set his free hand over her mouth. As he expected, she jerked awake, one hand snapping up to grasp his wrist in reaction, and attempted to sit up. He leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "We have company."

Her eyes widened and she nodded, her hand still curled about his as he let the Quicksilver flow over the both of them with only a slight twinge of pain to remind him that'd he'd majorly overdone it earlier. He lowered himself next to her, helped her sit upright, and pulled her close, her back pressed firmly against his chest, his arm shifting to wrap about her shoulders to create the smallest surface area possible to cover and hold her steady. She was shaking, a vibration running from crown to feet, but from fear or cold he couldn't be sure. As if they'd worked together a hundred times before, they curled their legs in close to the seat to reduce the likelihood of the unwelcome visitors tripping over them. Darien traded the flashlight for the gun and held it at the ready... just in case. He was truly hoping he wouldn't need to use it.

They were barely in time, as he could hear voices, accented voices, German, he was pretty certain, talking - almost arguing - in the tunnel right outside.

"... was unlocked," voice one said.

"And how many others were as well?" voice two pointed out.

It was a fair bet these guys, and others, had been checking every mine, cave, nook and cranny looking for Fallon.

"These prints are fresh," voice one countered, sounding irritated.

"_These prints_ could have been here for decades, just like the last two places we checked," voice two snarled, clearly past irritation and on his way to well and truly pissed. "Do you smell that?"

"Yah. See? Someone _is_ here," voice one crowed as they appeared in the doorway sporting hand-held spotlights and automatic weapons, AK-47s at a wild guess.

Fallon twitched, apparently not enjoying this hide in plain sight thing, but it wasn't as if they had much choice. Darien seriously considered shooting them and dragging the bodies deeper into the mine, but he couldn't be certain if they were alone in the truck or if someone would come looking for the mooks should they stay out of contact for too long, which would then lead others to the canyon and the mine. So, he held perfectly still, tried to breathe as shallowly as possible, and waited.

They shined the light about the room, illuminating every inch and washing across Darien and Fallon three times before one of them swore. "She's not here."

"But she was. Which means she can't be too far away," the second replied, a dangerous smile crossing his features.

Number one shook his head. "Far, near, does not matter. We have only an hour to find her. Tor will not risk being caught when her friends come looking for her, and it will be our hides he takes his displeasure out on if we don't have a body for him." They backed towards the doorway.

"Is it true she got away from him before?"

Number one shrugged. "That's what they're saying, but I find it hard to believe. Tor doesn't make that kind of mistake." The voices faded as they made their way back towards the entrance.

"Still," number two argued, "if she did it once..." The sound trailed away as the pair moved out of range.

Neither Darien nor Fallon moved; they didn't even breathe sighs of relief, knowing that the slightest noise would bring the pair back to investigate, probably in more detail. Darien counted off five minutes in his head before shifting to speak directly into her ear, "Stay here."

Not waiting for a response, he slipped from beneath her and made his way quickly and quietly to the entrance while still invisible. Fact was, his heart was still pounding with a hefty dose of fear-induced adrenaline, which was doing a damn fine job of keeping the Quicksilver flowing, thank you very much. First, he listened at the door, but between the muffling effects of the Quicksilver and the pounding of his heart, there was nothing to hear. Almost timidly, he eased the door open, half expecting to suddenly be awash in light and then sprayed with bullets, but there was nothing, just darkness, and the rain. He released that sigh of relief, dropped the Quicksilver, and risked stepping out to survey the area. Off to the right, heading deeper into the canyon was the truck, the lights barely visible as they continued their search.

_'Crap, that was close.'_ They were safe, for now. He made his way back to their little haven by flashlight and relit the lantern. Fallon hadn't moved; the Quicksilver flakes picking up the light in the few places a heavier dusting of them had been caught in the folds of the blanket.

"They're heading deeper into the canyon. We'll just have to hope they don't decide to check this place again."

"Doubt they'll 'ave time," she said. "You 'eard 'em, they'll be packin' it in soon." She ran the fingers of one hand through her hair and licked her lips.

"Nice to know we're popular," Darien grumbled as he adjusted the light level on the lantern down a notch.

"Me, ye mean. Prob'ly don' give a damn 'bout ye. Oh, they'll kill ye just because, but..." She trailed off, voice going momentarily faint.

Darien gave her the once over, noting the flushed cheeks that weren't a by-product of the golden-toned light source and the beads of sweat on her brow even as she huddled under the comforter. "Fallon?" He crouched in front of her and set a hand on her forehead. Just the fact that she hadn't stopped him was a bad sign. She wasn't warm, she was frickin' _hot _to the touch. "You're burning up."

"Aye. I am. What time is it?" she asked, as if being sick was of no importance whatsoever.

"Uh," he checked his watch, "about 4:30."

"And dawn's at 0615. This is doable." She must have caught the confusion written on his face. "I'm fine," she assured him, without the slightest hope of convincing him of _that_.

Before she could stop him, he pulled the collar of her shirt aside to get a look at the bullet wound. She wasn't bleeding, but the area around it was red and swollen, and, he was willing to bet, hot to the touch. "Shit. How'd you manage to get an infection so fast?"

She just shrugged. "I've dealt with worse."

Darien shook his head in annoyance and released her, unable to see how she could be so calm. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"An' we will," she stated, "but for now we 'ave to wait." Darien was preparing to argue, but she rolled right over the top of him, "'As the weather cleared?"

"No," he admitted, "but..."

"But nothin'. We stick to the plan."

"Screw the plan," Darien shouted, fear, and worry coupled with incipient exhaustion over-riding any politeness.

Fallon remained perfectly cool, not allowing his little tantrum to affect her in the least. "We stick to the plan," she repeated. "Gettin' shot may not have been part of it..."

"Exactly my point," he interrupted. "You can't want to... to suffer, maybe risk dying just 'cause it ain't part of the plan. C'mon," he wheedled. "I'll send the signal while you stay here. It shouldn't take them _that_ long to find us, right?"

She laughed softly. "Fawkes, do ye want lead your partner into an ambush? Tor's plonkers'll be sure to 'ear the chopper. Can ye really tell me that they'll do nothing?"

She was right and he _hated_ that fact. Even more, he hated the calm pragmatism that seemed to roll of her so naturally; he wished he could be half as cool and confident when dealing with the unexpected. Hell, part of him wanted to stomp his feet and whine piteously, '_but I wanna go home!'_ until she caved and did it his way. Thing is, that trick stopped working all of six months after going to live with his aunt and uncle. Oh, they'd had sympathy for the orphaned younger sibling, but only for so long. He was pretty certain it wouldn't work on Fallon at all.

Darien highly doubted Fallon _wanted_ to be here in this musty, dusty mine any more than he did; she'd probably just, as Monroe would put it, 'suck it up and take it like a man.' Fallon was making it quite clear that she was used to dealing with whatever crap life tossed in her path. The only time she'd gotten upset was when _he'd_ screwed up, and, to give credit where credit was due, he'd done so rather spectacularly this time around.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, fingers wandering through the collection of small items he found there. None of which were any use in this situation. The bad guys would be gone within the hour, with sunrise to follow shortly thereafter, chasing, he hoped, the rain away as it did so. Given she was not going to change her mind, there was little he could do but make sure they continued to stay secure until they could get the hell out of here. That, and make her as comfortable as possible whether or not she wanted him to.

"You are incredibly stubborn," he informed her with a glower.

"And?" She blinked up at him all doe-eyed and innocent.

He wagged a finger at her. "Forget stubborn, you're just plain trouble."

She flashed him a dangerous smile. "You're learning." She shifted, sitting up a bit more. "I'll..."

"_You_ will rest," he told her in a tone that brooked no argument, then picked up the cup of water, and handed it to her.

She sniffed it warily, took a sip as if unsure it would stay down, then, once confident it was not going to make a return trip, drank the rest down quickly. "No way I'm gonna fall back to sleep."

"Sleep?" He snatched up the comic book and plopped down next to her. "I gotta see if the good guys save the day." He knew that would hit a nerve after her pronouncement of earlier.

She huffed softly. "A'course ye do."

There was silence except for the rustling of paper as he turned a page, and, when a few minutes had passed, she allowed herself to lean against him, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. Darien made certain not to react, as he was unsure if it was intentional or if gravity was simply acting upon her, like strangers on a long plane flight, and he continued to read as if nothing had happened. If she was doing it knowingly, then it was probably no more than practicality; he had sat down to her right and he seriously doubted leaning against her left shoulder would be a fun or restful experience by any stretch of the imagination. He could feel the heat radiating off her and would have basked in the warmth had it not been for the fun fact he knew it was 'cause she was fighting an infection of monstrous proportions. Yet, for all her protestations of being 'fine' and not likely to sleep, he felt her body relax one slow step at a time until he was quite certain she was out.

He turned his head, that shock of black hair the only thing he could see, and found himself admiring her. Here she was, strong, competent, used to relying on herself and yet able to trust a stranger when the situation called for it. That took a lot of guts, or utter foolishness, he supposed. Especially knowing what she did about him. If the situation had been reversed, he couldn't say that he'd be able to do the same.

---

Darien stared out the door in amazement; somehow in the last 20 minutes the weather had shifted, the rain that had been letting up the last check was now gone, the clouds overhead beginning to break up and even reveal the occasional star glimmering brightly in the night... well, pre-dawn sky.

The only sounds were that of dripping water and desert birds starting their morning routines, and while there was no sign of Westgaard's mooks, there was no sense in pushing their luck. If Fallon had remembered correctly, true dawn was about 45 minutes away and they'd probably need all of that time to climb to the top of this ridge. She wanted high ground to send off the signal, just in case. Made sense to him. He took another moment to stretch, wishing he had 20 ounces of caffeine laden goodness and an extra-large breakfast burrito before hiking up the hillside. Not that he was complaining, he was alive and healthy, if tired from overdoing the Quicksilver, so that counted for something.

He shut the door and jogged back down the tunnel. He found Fallon struggling to pull on her boots. While she had indeed rested, she'd never fallen back to sleep as he'd thought. He'd discovered that when he'd tried to figure out how to slide out from under her to do a security check; she'd simply sat up and ended his waffling. He'd made sure to bring her water every time, chilled down via Quicksilver, however, this time was gonna be a bust.

"Weather clearing?" she asked as she finished tying boot one.

"Yep. Wish the local weathermen were half as accurate as you." He scooped up the blankets and dumped them back into their storage container, figuring there was no reason to leave items to the local fauna on the off chance some other lost souls found their way to the place in need of a temporary haven. It wasn't much, but sometimes one didn't need much to get by for a few hours.

While Fallon pulled on her second boot, Darien picked up their remaining items; the climbing harnesses, jackets - hers still noticeably damp - and the Kevlar vest.

Although he still had the Glock, she wore the holster. "Ye always this neat?" she asked in simple curiosity.

"Actually, yes," he answered as he tossed the various pieces of gear over one shoulder and held out her jacket.

She levered herself to an upright position, groaning softly, took her jacket and shrugged into it. "T'ain't ye jus' full of surprises." She fished out the LED flashlight and switched it on as Darien extinguished the lantern.

He couldn't be certain if she was being snarky or honest. "Hey, what you see is what you get."

She snorted, wincing a bit for her trouble. "This from an invisible man," she said, her eyebrows quirking upwards.

"Okay, maybe not the best turn of phrase," he admitted ruefully. He watched as she ran a hand through her sweat-damp hair and shivered. "You ready for this?"

"Aye. I'm always ready."

Darien tried, he really did, but the words, "That's the way I like my women," popped out before he could stop them and making him damn thankful he was still in possession of the gun.

Fallon, however, took it all in stride. "Boyo, I'm outta your league." Then she boldly stepped upped to him and reclaimed her weapon, grasping the butt firmly and removing it from the waistband of his pants. As she strode away, she slid it home in the holster, the bright LED leading the way.

Darien shook his head and slowly blew out the breath he'd been holding. He had the sinking feeling she was right. That even with being a thief for over half his life, two stints in prison, and the last couple of years playing spy he was still a hack. An eternal wannabe struggling to keep up with the other little leaguers while she was trashing the Yankees to win the pennant.

This led him to wonder, again, just why he bothered. Clearly, there was little point in playing the hero when so many others were profiting by doing the opposite, or, like Fallon, working both sides. A week ago all _this_ made perfect sense, and now... well, now it didn't.

From the tunnel, Fallon's voice echoed back, "If ye be waiting for the complimentary breakfast, jus' let me know. I'll 'ave the concierge send the car 'round for ye in a wee bit."

His stomach growled at the mention of food, reminding him that input was required for proper functionality. "Nah, I think a brisk morning climb is just what I need," he snarked brightly as he followed after her.

---

The climb, while indeed brisk, was not nearly as much fun as the brochure had suggested. Fallon had gone quiet first, her seeming indomitable will swiftly succumbing to pain and the fever she was dealing with. As the sky lightened toward true dawn, they were more easily able to pick the best route upward, avoiding spots where the climb was near-vertical in favor of places where they could walk upright. Mad scrambles on all fours, Fallon wincing and cursing through them, happened twice when the hillside's deceptive topography led them astray. By the time they neared the top, Fallon was flagging noticeably. He caught her several times as her feet went out from under her; strength momentarily failing.

After the last one, she'd simply stood there, head hanging down and panting while Darien stood beside her, waiting to see if she was gonna pass out cold, but she eventually gathered herself and continued on.

He wondered if she was always this stubborn.

When they reached the summit, she staggered to a halt and visibly shivered in the cool morning air. She dug into a pocket, came up with the rebuilt GPS, and pressed a button on the side. That was it. Her next trick was to painfully lower herself to the ground with an audible whimper. Darien went to her and set the back of his hand against her forehead. She was exceedingly warm, though that was due in part to the vigorous climb they'd just enjoyed, yet she was... vibrating almost, a low key shaking throughout her body that he could feel. Without a word, he slipped his dry jacket off, set it over her shoulders and sat down beside her.

"So, we just wait?" She gave him this look that clearly translated to 'duh,' so he amended his question, "How _long_ do we wait?"

She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. "An hour." She stared off towards the west, the sun stretching her shadow out several yards along the ridge in front of her.

"And if no one shows?" He had to ask.

"Plan B. Ye 'ike into Dulzura and call for back-up." She glanced over at him. "Ye best make sure to find the damn mine."

It took him less than a second to realize she had no plans to make that hike with him. "Fallon... we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." For an instant, it looked like she was going to argue, but she just nodded, perhaps deciding it wouldn't make a whole lot of difference right now.

"So, are all your jobs this exciting?"

She shot him a completely confused look. "If this is what ye see as 'exciting' then ye be in the wrong line of work."

Considering how often he got the crap beat out of him on the job, the events of the last day were a mild inconvenience. And considering that he used to risk madness, or worse, every time he went invisible, the last day had been a walk in the park on a beautiful spring day with the loveliest woman imaginable - Mira Sorvino. Yet, here Fallon was, implying that the last day was _not_ normal, was _not_ what she was used to dealing with while on a job. Then, yeah, maybe he _was_ in the wrong line of work.


	11. Chapter 11

---

Bobby Hobbes was not a happy camper... still. The weather had cleared just after 0530 and the helicopter had been in the air within 30 minutes, flying swiftly over the desert towards Dulzura and the Hammer Corporation's mine. He hadn't slept a wink, too wired and too worried about Fawkes to relax enough to close his eyes. _'Damn it.'_ His partner, his _friend_ was out there somewhere, possibly hurt, possibly _dead_, and all he'd done was sit around and wait. He should've gone in ahead of O'Neill's crew, driven Golda into the ground if necessary, but been out there trying to find Fawkes. Bobby would never forgive himself if Fawkes were hurt. What he'd do if something worse had happened was a subject he avoided thinking about due to the dark paths his mind would turn to every single time.

"Agent Hobbes, three o'clock."

Hobbes acknowledged the words with a grunt and shifted to look out the right side of the copter. Below was the entrance to the mine at the apex of the canyon and on the ground were an H2 and three bodies. The rest of the area had been swept clean by the rain, leaving not so much as a set of tire tracks to follow.

"Papadopoulos?" Hobbes queried.

"According to GPS, the vehicle is his rental, so it's a fair bet one of the bodies is his," Steve responded.

A blonde head appeared next to Bobby. "We should probably arrange to pick up the bodies before the carrion birds get to them," Claire suggested in a cool voice. After all, they were just dead bodies, right?

"And secure the site," Murphy added needlessly.

Damn straight. Who knew what had been really going on in there; speculation of a biotech lab notwithstanding, there had been far more than a couple dozen guys, and the gear had all been military, the set up reminiscent of an army. A personal army. There could be far more than just some chemical nasties buried in the depths of the mine.

They were slowly circling the area, crossing over the ridgeline as they did so. Up near the cockpit Murphy and Steve were exchanging heated words, complete with hand waving and finger pointing. Murphy ended it with, "Agent Hobbes, I think you should see this." He was frowning deeply, as if unsure how the agent was going to take the news about to be relayed.

_'Oh crap, they found Fawkes,'_ was Bobby's first - and only - thought as his stomach dropped, free-falling to the desert floor below them. Murphy shifted to the side - the cockpit was _not_ designed for four - and directed Bobby's attention to a small LCD screen mounted in the console. At first, he had no clue what he was looking at, then it resolved itself into a thermal imaging display of the ground beneath them, currently the ridgeline, a good 100 feet back from the entrance. The mine was glowing; bright white at the center, shading back through yellows, oranges, and reds. In contrast, the ground not over the mine was a dark blue, still retaining the cool temperatures from the overnight hours.

"They torched the place," he finally said aloud, not finding himself overly surprised by that little factoid. "What's it register?"

"Uh... white is 2000 degrees Fahrenheit or higher," Steve answered after fiddling with the display to show the legend.

Murphy grunted as if kicked. "They didn't just torch it, they incinerated it."

"What in heaven's name could they have been doing in there to warrant that?" Claire asked from behind them. Their words had obviously been more than enough for her to understand what had occurred.

"Keep, do you really want to know?" Hobbes asked as he turned about to look at her. He wasn't sure _he_ wanted to know, and now it was looking like they never would.

"Bobby," Claire was looking out the side window, "could the mine collapse?"

He thought about it. "Not a clue. Why?"

"Well, as we have no idea what was in there, if it were to collapse, toxic gases or worse could be released. It's a potential bio-hazard at the very least." Her tone was deadly serious.

"Crap." Hobbes pulled out his cell phone and speed dialed the office. He quickly relayed Claire's concerns to Eberts, who assured Bobby that the situation would be dealt with swiftly. "What a frickin' mess," he pointed out as he put the phone away. "There'll be a HAZMAT team out here in an hour." He sat down, running a hand across his face. The helicopter stopped its circling and turned due east, towards the low mountains a few miles away.

"Good," Murphy said as he sat down across from Hobbes. "We're heading to the Whitney University Excavation Site."

Hobbes looked at him blankly. He still hadn't been granted all the details of the _plan_. "And that would be...?"

"The rendezvous point," Murphy explained.

"Would... Miss O'Neill have been able to find it without the GPS mapping system?" Claire asked.

Murphy shrugged. "Possibly. If they aren't there, we'll widen the search area."

Bobby knew that. Of course, that was presupposing they didn't come across a pair of rain-soaked and bullet-riddled bodies lying broken on the desert floor. The mental image that accompanied that thought was both vivid and gruesome, he could _see_ the wounds, the pale, bloodless skin and the open, staring eyes of Fawkes already beginning to cloud over, the vultures gliding into land and pluck off the choice bits first...

He sucked in a long slow breath and blew it out to a count of five. Expecting the worst was one thing, getting the full color mental image was another. Fawkes had managed to survive the uncertain life of a thief, including two stints in prison; he should be able handle a little hike in the desert and getting wet, right?

"Mierda, we have a signal," Juanita suddenly shouted from the cockpit.

Hobbes was out of his seat and at the front in record time. "Where?" he practically yelled as his eyes roved around for the right display.

The helicopter altered course northeasterly. Steve tapped the heads up display. "Here. They missed the rendezvous point by about three klicks." A ghost of a grin crossed his features. "Not bad all things considered."

"Not bad," Hobbes grumbled, knowing that this sudden reappearance of the GPS signal did not really mean anything; a coyote or condor could have bumped the hand-held and turned it back on. "Why's it doing that?"

The blip on the screen was... fuzzy, as if the lock was uncertain at best.

Steve frowned, but it was Murphy who answered, "Low battery, probably."

Hobbes snorted in derision and glanced over his shoulder at O'Neill's yes-man. "Some experts, sending out gear that hasn't been checked. Like I should be surprised."

Murphy bared his teeth. It was _not_ a smile. "Unlike off the shelf models, which have a battery life of four hours max, ours are good for 24 minimum, and it was up to spec. It must have been damaged."

"Yeah, by O'Neill's stupidity," Hobbes snapped.

Suddenly, Murphy looked a _lot_ bigger. Again. _'Neat trick. Wonder how he does it.'_

"So, do you want me to pick them up or come back after your pissing contest is over?" Juanita asked sardonically, which was effective in ending the mutually antagonistic stand-off that had been developing.

"You see 'em?" Hope, followed by a rush of outright joy, flowed through Hobbes at those words.

"Unless there's some other stray hikers dressed head to toe in black out there, yeah." Steve pointed out the windshield at the fast approaching ridge, where two figures decked out in dark clothing could easily be seen against the contrastingly light toned ground.

For a moment, Bobby was certain it wasn't them, as Fawkes' signature hair was missing, then he remembered the rain. That'd kill even the gravity-defying abilities of _his_ coif. The howl of wind in the cabin meant Murphy had the door open and ready to receive their wayward compatriots. The copter came in nice and slow, none of the fancy flying of yesterday, settling on the ridge about 15 feet away from the pair, who had stood in anticipation of their ride home.

They came forward at a fast walk, O'Neill ducking as they came within range of the swiftly rotating blades. When Fawkes failed to do the same, she reached up, grabbed him proprietarily by the collar, and pulled his head down and out of harm's way. Hobbes seethed; all the fear, all the worry, the downright terror bubbled to the surface, mixing together and in doing so, altering their state into pure, unadulterated rage. At one time it might have been directed at his partner for being so blindly stupid, but today... today he had a new and more appropriate target to vent at - Fallon O'Neill.

Fawkes hopped in with a sprightly, "O'Neill's Air Taxi Service to the rescue."

That earned a chuckle from her as she doggedly climbed inside. "Wait till ye get the bill," she quipped as Murphy closed and secured the door.

"Clear," Murphy barked, and the helicopter lifted into the air.

"Hey, Keepy, what brings you out here?" Darien asked as he dropped the assorted bits to the floor and claimed a seat as her medical equipment made an appearance.

Claire rolled her eyes, motioned for him to slide his sleeve up, and proceeded to wrap the blood pressure cuff about his biceps. "Do you really need to ask?"

Once Hobbes was satisfied his partner was in good hands, his full attention swung to O'Neill, who was still standing in the aisle, supporting herself by leaning heavily on the one of the seats, and shouted, "Do you normally try to kill off your clients, or was it a special bonus just for us? 'Cause, y'know, it's a stupid-ass way to run a business."

"Bobby," Claire squawked, shocked, the same time Darien snapped, "Hobbes, don't."

Bobby ignored both of them.

"I did exactly as I agreed..." O'Neill began, her cheeks flushing bright red.

"_We_ didn't agree to it. We went into that place blind," Hobbes bellowed. He had every intention of getting his pound of flesh out of her.

Behind O'Neill, Murphy visibly bristled, not approving of Bobby's tone or demeanor and taking it as the threat it was. She raised a hand, as if completely aware of her _pet's _reaction, and he instantly backed down. Fawkes, on the other hand, took exception to Bobby's words.

"Hobbes, for cripes sake, leave her alone, I'm fine."

"Not the point, Fawkes," Bobby watched O'Neill instead of turning to face his frustrated partner, "and she knows it." He stood there, eye to eye with her, her blushing in embarrassment and feeling more'n ready to pound her into the floor should she blink funny, girl or no girl. So, he was unable to keep his jaw from dropping when she _laughed_.

Reining in his anger, just barely, he poked her in the chest with one finger. "You think this is funny?"

"Aye," she hissed. "An' what's funnier is that I'm damn sure ye will _never _understand why." Then she proceeded to ignore him and turned to Claire. "Is 'e all right?"

"Nothing some food and rest won't take care of," the doctor answered. "He's _fine_." The last was surely directed at Bobby.

O'Neill managed a weak nod and said, "Good. Murphy, you're in charge," and crumpled.

Instinctively, Bobby reached out, caught her, and maneuvered her into the nearest seat. He was quick to realize that she wasn't flushed from embarrassment but from one hell of a fever.

"Shit," Darien gasped, clearly distraught. "I've been trying to tell ya, she was shot."

"So?" Bobby grouched as he was unceremoniously shoved out of the way by Murphy. "She was wearing a vest. Got a bruise..." He swallowed the rest of his grousing when Darien picked up said vest with a single finger poking _through_ the hole.

"Cop killers," Bobby mumbled as he sat down in surprise. It wasn't like he'd _known _she was hurt, and he most certainly wasn't the type to kick someone when they were down, 'specially a _girl_.

"Not likely. This is modified Kevlar, it can handle a sniper bullet," Murphy reminded as he removed Darien's jacket from O'Neill's limp body. "Where's the nearest hospital with a helipad?"

Bobby thought about that, but since it wasn't something on his normal need-to-know list, he hadn't a clue.

"Cabrillo," Claire responded. "May I?"

Murphy eyed her warily, then nodded. She didn't hesitate and immediately set about examining O'Neill.

"They won't let you land," Hobbes pronounced.

"Then we won't," Steve stated from up front.

Murphy barked, "Call Nikki and have him wire Fallon's records over, they're gonna need them."

Hobbes shifted to sit next to Darien, who was watching Claire work on O'Neill with concern in those brown eyes of his. "Fawkes, I'd've been here sooner, but..."

"Hobbes, I'm _fine_," Darien snapped in exasperation. "We followed the plan and everything worked out. Why the hell did you go off on Fallon like that?"

It wasn't until that moment, with Fawkes chewing him out for yelling at the woman who had nearly got his partner killed, that Bobby realized Darien_ was _fine. That while Bobby had been worrying that he'd let his partner down, Fawkes had been handling things like a seasoned pro. No wonder O'Neill had laughed. She'd seen clear as day what Bobby had been blind to. Somewhere along the way, his partner had stopped being an inexperienced greenhorn and become an agent. And even worse, that maybe - just maybe - he didn't need Bobby Hobbes any longer.

After all, who really _wanted_ to be saddled with a neurotic, paranoid, washed up end of the road agent like him?

"Keep, is she okay?" Darien asked, worry seeping into his voice.

Bobby was still reeling, from the realization that had struck him, and unsure how he should react now that their relationship had changed. It left him standing on ground where his footing was less than secure, so he said the first thing that came to mind, "Jeeze, Fawkes, forget about her. She's fine."

Darien's eyes narrowed and he swung his full attention to Bobby. _That_ was not a happy camper look, he noted silently.

"Fine? Man, what is your malfunction?" Darien growled. "Fainting generally ain't on the top 10 list of things being _fine_."

Fully aware of his error, Hobbes tried to soothe his partner's frazzled nerves. "Fawkes, just calm down..."

"Oh, shut up," Darien told him bluntly, then turned away, the intent to ignore Hobbes clear in every line of the man's body.

Hobbes didn't fight it, shifted in his seat to face front, pulled out a bottle of pills and dry-swallowed one. It was the only thing he could think of to do.

"ETA five minutes," 'Nita called from the cockpit.

"They letting you land?" Darien asked in curiosity.

"Nope," Steve answered, "but we got it covered. This beast does hover."

Darien's attention swung back to those sitting in the rear of the copter. "Claire?"

Claire draped the stethoscope about her neck and pulled out a pair of surgical scissors, which she used to cut the away enough of O'Neill's t-shirt to get a good look at the damage. Hobbes actually winced in sympathy. "Not good, I'm afraid. Pulse is thready and weak and she's running a temp of 104 degrees."

"One hundred and four?" Hobbes echoed, shocked. No wonder she'd gone down like a pole-axed steer.

"How long has she had the fever?" Claire asked.

"Since 4:30, at least. We had some company about then." Darien ran a hand through his hair, but instead of remaining upright, it flopped back down into his eyes. Strangely, it didn't look half bad. "She refused to use the GPS sooner. Didn't want to lead you into an ambush."

Hobbes met Fawkes' eyes, knowing that tidbit of info was aimed at him, and damn near flinched at the _resentment_ in their coffee brown depths. As if Fawkes was mortally insulted that Bobby had just _assumed_ he'd screw up and need his partner to come save him. The fact that Bobby couldn't find fault with O'Neill's logic, especially if Westgaard had his bully-boys out hunting for them all night, just made it hurt all that much more.

The helicopter ceased its forward motion and Steve popped into the cabin to open the door. They were hovering about a foot off the deck, and as near to perfectly still as Juanita could keep it. Well, they hadn't landed, that's for sure. Claire stood and moved to the door, medical bag in hand.

"Claire, what are you doing?" Hobbes whined in confusion, feeling like he was losing his only ally.

"Bobby, I'm a doctor and the only one with any information on her current condition," Claire explained as if it should have been obvious.

"Doctor, that's not necessary," Murphy said as he carefully lifted the unconscious O'Neill from the seat.

"Yes, it is," she insisted as Steve offered his arm to assist her out and reminded her to duck. "She's the Agency's responsibility."

Hobbes sighed. It was true after a fashion. "I'll have Alice and Green meet you here."

"Perfect." She waved for the orderlies with the gurney to come closer.

Murphy stepped out and then turned about to lock eyes with Steve. "See to it these two are returned to their agency safe and sound."

"Will do," was the reply, accentuated with a mock salute.

Murphy, bent over awkwardly to protect his cargo, moved away from the helicopter and towards the waiting medical staff. Then the door slid shut, cutting off the view.

"Back to base, 'Nita," Steve said as he slid back into his seat and put the headset back on.

Hoping that he and his partner could talk, Bobby said, "Fawkes..."

But Darien ignored him, leaning forward in his seat so those up in the cockpit could hear him. "Any chance we can hit a drive-thru? I'm starved."

---

Darien stifled a yawn and forced his eyes to remain open. Shit, he was tired and hungry and in need of a shower and a change of clothes and 12 hours of sleep and... well, you get the idea. Although his request for food in the helicopter had indeed been facetious and successful in deflecting the conversation Bobby wanted to have, the need was very real, but once alone in Golda, his partner had gone into full brood and Darien decided against repeating the request. There were plenty of other things to think about, not the least of which was whether a certain green-eyed lady was still among the living.

As ordered, the ever-calm Stevie escorted them back to the Agency and into the presence of the Official before he considered his duty discharged. Which meant being granted an audience with his Royal Bossness without first inputting the mandatory caffeine required to deal with the Fatman in a reasonable frame of mind. That whole short on sleep thing was a secondary consideration at best.

There was a most thorough and mostly coherent debriefing that took well over an hour as Darien recounted everything, including the fact that _he_ was the reason the GPS handheld had been broken. He also fully credited Fallon for locating them a place to hole up for the night, even if the actual finding had required more than a bit of luck.

Eberts made him go over exactly how long he had remained Quicksilvered again and again, as if that information was of great import. That Darien had revealed the ability to Fallon seemed to be only a minor concern, which worried him. The Official had been known to take extreme measures to keep the project secret in the past, and would surely do so again in the future. Who knew what he'd do to Fallon? A quick call to the hospital, a mark called in and, oops, she'd die on the operating table. It was with that thought in mind that Darien insisted that it was his and only his idea to go haring off to "rescue" her. That she had never called for help and had made it quite clear after he'd made his needless attempt at heroics that her move, stupid as it had seemed at the time, had been part of a greater plan.

The Official made a show of bluster and anger, but Darien could tell it was half-hearted at best. Plainly, the 'Fish had _expected_ Darien to screw up and let the proverbial cat out of the bag.

Once the debriefing was concluded, they moved back to the Official's office.

"Overall not a bad job, boys," the Official said as he sat down behind his desk. "Aristid Papadopoulos is out of business..."

"He's dead," Bobby pointed out.

"... the Greek government," the Official continued, "is thanking us for our timely assistance, and," he paused, purely for dramatic purposes, "we made a nice profit on this mission."

Bobby poked a finger in the air. "Uh, Chief, we didn't get Westgaard, so there's no reward money."

"True, true," the Official conceded. "But thanks to Darien's forethought..."

"You mean his need to steal anything not nailed down?"

Darien decided to take umbrage with that, however accurate, observation, but only managed a yawn-filled, "Hey."

"... we scored a half million dollars. Not bad for a day's work and 10 times the reward." The Official smiled, clearly basking in the momentary solvency of his Agency.

Darien whistled. "Five hundred thousand? What the hell was he buying? The Maltese Falcon?"

The Official shrugged. "I'm sure the Doctor will figure that out in time." He shifted, the springs of the chair creaking ominously under the stress. "Now, as the Keeper is otherwise occupied, I suggest you go home and get some sleep. I'm certain she'll want to run all sorts of tests bright and early tomorrow."

Bobby was up already and headed for the door before Darien absorbed the words. Not that he didn't want to take advantage of the 'Fish's sudden generosity, but he had a question niggling at him. "What was it you wanted Fallon to do for you?" Yeah, he'd done a lot of thinking and had come to the conclusion that there must have been some side deal between his boss and her, it just fit the 'Fish's style to a T.

Ebert's entered at just that moment and he had obviously heard the question. "This." He waved a file as he crossed the room and handed it to the Official.

"And _this_ would be...?" Darien prompted, hoping to elicit an actual response this time. He knew Bobby hadn't yet left, but he was still over by the door as if waiting to see what would happen next.

The Official opened the file and slid what appeared to be no more than a sheet of paper in Darien's direction. He heaved himself out of the chair and over to the desk. It was a photograph, a pretty damn good one, of Tormond Westgaard. "Pictures? Fallon got herself shot over some pictures?" Four of them total, all clear, crisp and indisputably Westgaard.

"Yes. And we get credit." The Official gloated. "The only ones to ever get a photo of him."

"But he's still on the loose," Bobby reminded them.

"True, but he won't be able to hide as effectively," Eberts responded. "By this time tomorrow every security agency in the world will have a copy of these. His anonymity will be gone. I predict he'll be in custody within the next six months."

Bobby snorted in derision. "I'll take that bet. Westgaard'll go to ground and still be causing trouble in a year's time, you can take that to the bank."

"Bet? But I didn't..." Eberts tried to protest.

"Too late, Ebes," Darien said around a grim smile, agreeing with Bobby. "Hobbes already suckered you." He gazed at the photographs, wondering if getting this tangible evidence of a ghost had been worth it.


	12. Chapter 12

---

The sun was setting with a brilliant orangey-red in the west, making the shadows lengthen across the ground to infinity, and causing the air to glow with a warmth that could be felt. Darien had slept away most of the day, a need for some serious sustenance drawing him back towards consciousness late in the afternoon. Once awake, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, he found himself restless and chose to escape the confines of his tiny studio apartment for the canyons and valleys of the city proper. For the first time in ages he gazed about without the wariness and paranoia of a secret agent - always on the lookout for potential danger... or trouble that would require him to play the ill-fitting part of 'hero' once again. He also failed to see any marks, fools to con, places to case, easy money to be made with a minimum of contact and deft fingers. No, today he simply saw people; talking, laughing, arguing, alone or in groups, all moving to some throbbing pulse through veins of steel, stone and glass. Like the lifeblood of some giant slumbering beast, knowing their place and that without them all that surrounded them would wither and die.

He wanted to be part of that.

Not that he ever could be; he was smart enough to know _that_. His choices in life had made that eminently clear. And it made him realize that, no matter how good the intentions of Claire, he was cut off from any relationship with those oh so blissfully ignorant ordinary people about him. He would be forced to lie, to hide so much of what he did and who he was that any meaningful relationship would perforce be built on fabrications, window dressing, and of no real substance or value. And he was finding he _needed_ to be valued, on his own terms, on his own merits.

How could he 'go out and find a girl, fall in love and be happy' when she would _never_ see anything but the special effects? And should she ever pull the curtain aside, to look past the smoke and mirrors and reveal the true nature of the wizard, she would be just as disappointed as Dorothy was in the Land of Oz, and far more likely to walk away without a backward glance, unable forgive no matter how honest the emotions, the love.

Darien _knew_ this. He'd lived this. Casey O'Claire had been his greatest triumph and his greatest tragedy all rolled in one. Shakespeare couldn't have done better, and Darien didn't want to hurt someone like that ever again. Including, maybe especially, himself. Claire was, he could now admit, at least partially correct; he was afraid of being hurt, of investing time, energy and trust in a relationship that stood every chance of being doomed to failure. How could any relationship he was involved in not be?

Forget for a moment all the potential pitfalls of two human beings trying to mesh their lives, there were all those work related issues: enemies he'd collected, ones he'd yet to make, those after him for the gland and its secrets, others who would surely love to pick his brain for what he knew about the Agency. The list went on and on and on.

No, it just wasn't worth the risk.

That left him with few choices. Celibacy had never really been something he was interested in. He _liked _sex. It would be the first thing he did every morning and twice every night given the opportunity. His gland-enforced chastity was the longest dry-spell he'd been through since he'd first become sexually active back in his teens. Now that he had, once again, nixed any potential partner from the general population, his choices for possible bed mates dropped exponentially.

There was Claire who, even though that doctor/patient line had most certainly been crossed - both of them quite insane at the time, admittedly - wasn't a viable option any longer, as Bobby's obsession with her would make him very unlikely to share. Though he had been oddly unfazed to learn that Darien had been having erotic dreams about his partner, which left the door open the tiniest of cracks. However, this wasn't prison, no matter how much it felt like it some days, so there were no mitigating reasons to seek a male relationship when he preferred females. Shit, except for Bobby, all his fantasies revolved around women.

There was Alex, he supposed, who _probably_ wouldn't shoot him should he suggest a tryst, but who would also move on without batting an eye. He would be nothing more than an interesting diversion to her and, in truth, he'd just be getting laid.

There were a few other ladies at the Agency that Bobby claimed would be more than willing to pass some free time with his lanky partner. But outside Claire, Alex, and Bobby, Darien wasn't really comfortable with the remaining employees of the Agency.

Which left him with... plenty of time to increase his magazine collection. _'I wonder if Netflix carries porn?'_

He pulled to a stop; the left would take him deeper into the city proper and ultimately the Gaslamp District. A few beers in a few bars didn't seem like such a bad idea about now. The right would take him to Cabrillo, just a few short blocks away. He'd avoided the place as much as possible out of deference to Casey and their prior relationship. She wanted... needed to move on and him being nearby only put her at risk. His life had spilled over and swallowed up hers once already, he wouldn't risk repeating it.

His right turn signal came on seemingly of its own volition and the car followed along. Why was easy enough to figure out: Fallon O'Neill. Now there was a conundrum to ponder. She was damn fine looking, smart, quick with her tongue, and more than capable of taking care of herself. Plus she knew about the Agency and the Quicksilver. Of course, that could also be construed as a downside, since that info would probably be available on the thieves' eBay by week's end. And, yeah, he was attracted to her, but more than that he was attracted to what she could get him: Arnaud.

He'd have to think about that, as he was damn certain her fee for info on the Swiss Miss Mother would be far more that he had stashed away. Besides, that wasn't why he was here today. After their... adventure, he just wanted to make sure she was all right. Claire's comment about Fallon being the Agency's responsibility had really hit home with him. _'It's a convenient excuse, anyway.'_

He pulled into the visitor parking lot with indecision and justifications still battling each other in his mind.

An inquiry at the information desk sent him to another wing of the hospital; up three floors to a progressive care unit (PCU), and the nurse's station, where he was greeted with a sign warning that 'visiting hours are strictly enforced.' He had a half hour to see Fallon.

A matronly woman wearing scrubs covered in cutsie kitties gave him the evil eye from within her plexi-glass sanctuary. "Can I help you?"

Darien gave her his best charming smile and said, "I hope so; a friend of mine was brought in this morning with a gunshot wound. Lily, at the info desk, said she was probably here," he checked her nametag, "Margie."

"Your friend's name?" the question was decidedly cool.

"Fallon O'Neill."

Margie harrumphed and turned to a computer to tap a few keys. "Your name, sir."

"Darien Fawkes."

The evil eye returned. "Mr. Fawkes, you are not on the approved visitor's list."

_'Visitor's list? Huh?'_ "Oh," he mumbled. "Can you at least tell me if she's all right? Please?" He added a hefty dose of the whipped puppy look.

It didn't work. "Mr. Fawkes, I am not permitted to release information about our patients to non-family members." The standard and pretty much expected answer. He debated trying to use his badge to convince her, but doubted it would work. Probably just make her even more suspicious. Besides, he had other options. That whole invisible schtick had its uses.

"Then I guess I'd better go call one of those family members. Thanks." It never hurt to be polite, especially to someone who knows how to use sharp pointy things. He walked away, ostensibly heading for the elevator, checking for a good spot that was out of sight of both the eagle-eyed Margie and the cameras.

Security was pretty tight, with eyes everywhere on the floor, but not _off_ of it. That meant no cameras in the elevator - he'd checked on the ride up - and not the stairwell. The doorways were only monitored from the floor - unless they had upgraded since his last visit. Since he didn't want to get stuck riding up and down with strangers until either the car was empty or he lucked out and someone pressed the button for three, he headed for the stairwell.

He swung the door open, double-checking for cameras in the within (there were none, just like he recalled) and then, beginning with his extremities that were out of sight of the floor camera, started the Quicksilver flowing, going for a speed record. By the time he was out of camera view, he was invisible and there was still plenty of room for him to slip back through without having to hold the door in place. Then it was back to the nurse's station where Margie was still sitting in her fortress of solitude. Darien wandered around the perimeter of the room to the entrance, which had been left open, and poked his head inside. Off to the right, out of direct sight of visitors, was a dry erase board listing all the room numbers, the nurse assigned, special needs of the patient in some cryptic nurse code and the patient's last name. Fallon was in room 316. _'Nice of them to make it so easy for me.'_

_'Eight, 10, 12...'_ Darien rattled off the numbers until he stood before 16. The door was shut, but a little thing like that had never stopped him before, and he swung it open just enough to slip inside. The room was dimly lit, the sole window covered by drawn curtains that easily blocked the last of the day's light. He checked for cameras and, finding none, let the Quicksilver cascade off his body.

He eased closer to the bed, noting the plethora of tubes, and wires and boxes that went _beep,_ hovering about like worried relatives - not that there were any of those, relatives, that is. Fallon was alone in the room, her skin as pale as the bedclothes she lay under, that shock of dark hair a dramatic contrast that was very apropos. Both light and dark, day and night - good and evil? - in one package. She was what she was, he supposed, whether or not he'd get the chance to find out which was the unknown at this moment.

Her hand shifted slightly, drawing his attention, and he noted the IV in the back it, with three different bags of... stuff dripping into it, plus a morphine drip in a box mounted lower on the pole - for the pain. There was an automatic blood pressure cuff about her left biceps and a collection of wires that vanished under the ugly blue hospital gown she wore, one of which was connected to the heart monitor that counted off her pulse in slow but steady beats. The gown had slipped off her left shoulder, revealing skin, collarbone, and a blood-stained bandage, hopefully the hole in her shoulder was now lacking one chunk of lead, and that she'd actually been well enough to have it removed.

She looked frickin' awful.

Okay, so maybe that was to be expected, but he figured... they'd fix her, y'know? Remove the bullet, give her some painkiller and antibiotics, and she'd be all better. Not the flushed, sweaty, shit warmed over person he'd found.

The air conditioner kicked on and the door swung shut with a soft _snick_. Fallon visibly twitched, the heart monitor making it very clear she was no longer slumbering peacefully. She remained still for several seconds, waiting for the rush of adrenaline to slow before coming to any decision about achieving full consciousness or drifting back to sleep. As a precaution, Darien went see-through; he could just imagine her reaction, waking up and finding him there, staring down at her like some thief in the night, hell, she probably had her gun under the pillow.

The sound of the Quicksilver enveloping him must have been enough to rouse her and her curiosity completely, for she opened her eyes, blinking in the dim light as looked right at him... around him. "'Ello? Is someone there?" she called out, her voice hoarse. A few seconds went by, Darien holding his breath and hoping she wouldn't get up to investigate, the only sounds in the room from the machines and the ventilation system. Finally, she sighed and ran a hand through he hair with a hiss. "Great, now I'm 'allucinating." With a huff of irritation, she rolled away from him and curled up on her side.

Darien allowed himself to breathe, if shallowly, but remained unmoving until her heartbeat slowed back to its previous level, signaling, he assumed, that she was once again asleep.

Since he had achieved his goal of ascertaining her current health, he left the room and made his way back to the elevator. He dropped the Quicksilver inside the empty car and headed back to the lobby area. As he exited, he spotted Murphy coming in the doors and head to the info desk.

Lily smiled brightly at him. "Welcome back, Mr. Quintvalle," then handed him a nametag, which he clipped to the collar of his shirt. He gave her a quick nod of thanks, turned towards the elevators, and spotted Darien.

Though there was a momentary urge to hide, thinking that he'd be unwelcome, he decided, what the hell, the worst Murphy could do was tell Darien to stay away, and he wasn't entirely sure he _cared_ what Murphy thought.

"Quintvalle?" Darien repeated as Murphy approached.

Murphy chuckled softly. "Aye. Most folks have last names."

"So, that would make you Murphy Quintvalle." One less mystery to solve about Fallon and her band of merry men.

"Nope. First name is Bartholomew."

Darien's eyebrows shot up. No wonder he went by Murphy. "Okay, I give; why does everyone call you Murphy?"

Murphy waved towards a sitting area that moved them out of the flow of traffic. "I earned that nick when I was in the service."

"RAF?"

"Royal Marines."

Darien swallowed his surprise. Not because Murphy had been military, that much had been obvious even to him, but that he'd been a Marine - like Bobby.

"You heard of Murphy's Law?" Murphy asked.

"'Anything that can go wrong will go wrong'," Darien quoted.

"Exactly," Murphy agreed, scratching behind one ear. "I had a knack for confounding that Law."

Darien thought about that for a few seconds. "You were Murphy's Law for Murphy's Law?" Okay, that sounded nuttier than an invisible man.

Murphy shrugged. "So it seems. Got my men out of more fubared situations than statistics could account for."

"Sounds like a good man to have guarding your back," Darien pointed out astutely.

Murphy produced an enigmatic smile, but didn't comment. Since he seemed willing to answer questions, Darien pulled out a few that had been rattling around in the depths of his mind since meeting Fallon. "So. How long have you known Fallon?"

"A couple of years, why?"

"Just curious. I mean, a career military man joining a merc group is kinda like switching sides..." Only then did the previous response sink in. "Wait. Two years? But that's after she left Phoenix." Maybe it was stupid of him, but Darien had assumed that Murphy had been with Fallon and her previous band of merry men. It just seemed to fit with their obvious camaraderie.

"Aye. If you want t'know about her Phoenix days and _she_ won't tell you herself, then ask Steve. _He's_ the one who recruited her." If Murphy was surprised by the false assumption, he didn't let it show.

"Then how did you end up working for her?"

Murphy smiled, as if inordinately pleased that particular question had been asked. "Simple, I needed info and she could get it."

Darien nodded. The answer not very useful in his opinion. "Guess I'm slow. Could you elaborate?"

A look of - was it pain? - washed across the older man's features. "Short version?"

Darien nodded, willing to take the puppet show version if it would feed his curiosity.

"My unit was used as scapegoats after a mission went _very_ wrong. We lost several men and I was convinced we were set-up - by our side."

"Oh, man, that sucks," Darien commiserated.

"I went digging to prove it and my family was threatened to get me to stop," Murphy paused, the old anger burning just below the surface. "I'd done enough poking about where I shouldn't have to show up on Fallon's radar, and one of her people made contact."

"And you made a deal."

"Aye. She'd give me the info I needed and, in exchange, I'd come to work for her for one year. I was out of the military no matter what, so it was a reasonable deal."

"You didn't just pay her?"

Murphy laughed. "Do I look rich to you?"

"Oh." Darien should have realized that if the info was important enough to be buried, then it was worth a _lot _of money to anyone interested in it. A year of work, similar in some ways to what Murphy already did for a living, was indeed reasonable. "Was the info good?"

Murphy grinned. "Very. I got an honorable discharge and full benefits. Just have to keep my mouth shut."

Darien shook his head, impressed. "Why are you still working for her, then? Your time was up after a year."

"What else did I have to do? I walked once my end of the deal was fulfilled, but after two weeks of nothing to do, and no one wanting to hire me, I got bored and frustrated. Another month and I was ready to bite a bullet, so, one morning I just got up and walked into her office, ready to ask for a job, any job. Fallon just looked me up and down, and said, 'What took you so long?' and handed me my next assignment. Like she _knew_ I'd be back."

Darien snorted. "She probably did." He'd learned_ that_ much about her even in so short a time, she was a past master at manipulating people. Quite possibly as good as the Official.

"Too right," Murphy agreed. "Now, since I doubt you came here to talk to me..."

"Already tried. I wasn't on the list." Darien wasn't bitter about it; she had every right to protect herself.

"I can fix that," Murphy offered, but Darien shook his head.

"Not necessary. Just... is she gonna be okay?"

Murphy suddenly looked like he swallowed a bug, an icky one at that. "Eventually."

"Eventually? How bad could it have been?" Darien's worry meter instantly kicked into gear, which was kinda odd given he barely knew the woman. It wasn't like he planned on marrying the girl, but he was also human and he didn't want her dropping dead... at least not before he got a chance to pick her brain.

"She..." Murphy trailed off, as if trying to decide what exactly to say. "You know about the car bombing, that she damn near died."

Huh, she'd glossed over _that_ bit of information in her drunken story-telling, though she'd certainly dropped more than enough clues for him to figure it out. It was pretty clear she didn't dwell on what had been done to her, oh no, her focus was aimed at finding Tor and getting revenge for her brother. Whatever the lingering results of her injuries, she hadn't let them slow her down or prevent her from achieving her goals. "Enough."

"Well, what you don't know is that it caused a serious infection that all but destroyed her immune system. On top of that, she's built up a tolerance to most antibiotics. Something as simple as a fever can kill her." Murphy waited for Darien's reaction with a cool look on his face, as if how he responded was of importance in the grand scheme of things.

"Damn," Darien muttered. "No wonder she got sick so fast."

Murphy nodded in agreement. "They're using a new antibiotic and she's responding, but slowly. She'll be here at least a week."

Darien shook his head in disbelief. "Shit."

"You sure you don't want to come up? It's not a problem." Murphy sounded sincere, Darien must have passed some test, but he begged off.

"Nah, I got stuff to do." Not quite a lie and Murphy bought it.

"I'll tell Fallon you stopped by."

"No need. Don't want her thinking I'm stalking her or something." Darien gave him a wry grin and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Thanks, Murphy."

"Anytime, Fawkes. Anytime."

They parted ways then, Murphy for the elevator that would take him up to see Fallon and Darien the exit, his mind whirling with the information he'd been given to mull over.

---

Darien poked his head into the apartment and knocked on the open door. He could see Fallon next to one of the windows, an easel set up in front of her with an oversized drawing tablet balanced on it. She lifted her head and waved him in with a pencil still between her fingers.

"Murphy said to come on up." He stepped into the room, noting little had changed since his last visit over two weeks ago.

"Aye. I'm 'not working' on doctor's orders." She set the pencil down on a nearby table, which held a large jar filled with dozens of them in a rainbow of colors, and carefully rotated her left shoulder, wincing as she did so.

Since she didn't seem to mind his presence, he strode casually towards her. "Can't manage without you, huh?"

"They better not. Put me out of a job." She gave him a sly smile. "So, what can I do for ye today?"

"I, uh, wanted to ask you something," he began, suddenly feeling nervous about broaching the subject with her.

She nodded as she stepped away from the easel. "Thought ye might." She picked up a portfolio case that had been leaning against the back of the couch and began going through it, looking for something specific. "Ye don't 'ave t'worry 'bout your secret. Mr. Borden and I 'ave... an arrangement." She withdrew a piece of cardboard backing in a plastic sleeve, like those used by serious comic book collectors.

His curiosity was cut short as her words sank in. "Wait a minute, you cut a deal with the 'Fish? For what?" This was news to Darien, though the Official had been awfully quiet on the subject of Fallon knowing about the Quicksilver. Too quiet, in fact.

She shrugged as she carried her prize back to the easel. "Information, of course. Access to some databanks, some files, things like that."

"And what do you get?"

"That _is_ what I get," she corrected.

"Huh?" Darien might have been completely confused, but she didn't seem to mind, or was used to it by now. He was certain he'd failed to impress her during their stroll through the desert. No, she seemed to be enjoying his rendition of the village idiot.

"Your boss is a smart man, smart enough to figure out that I can occasionally be persuaded to _not_ sell a piece of information that I come across." She gingerly opened the plastic sleeve, slid a sheet of heavy vellum out, and clipped it to the paper already there.

_'Well... damn. Maybe she isn't quite the mercenary everyone has made her out to be.'_ "But I thought that info was worth millions?" Based on her comments, that was just the tip of the iceberg. Granted that meant his life at risk, but _that_ was nothing new.

"Oh, aye, 'tis," she agreed.

"But why cut a deal, and so cheaply?"

Fallon locked eyes with him, no guile, no trickery, no wicked grin, just frightful honesty and said, "'Cause it's the right thing to do."

Man, oh man, oh man. There it was, plain as day: payback. Her way of repaying the simple favor he'd done for her that night he'd invaded her home, drunk her whiskey, and helped her to her bed. Which didn't make sense; it _couldn't_ be her only reason. She was too good to turn away all that potential profit out of a sense of obligation to him, some guy she just barely knew. It just didn't fit what he _did_ know about her.

"Fallon, that doesn't..." He moved to stand beside her, his train of thought derailed as he saw what she had been doing. "Damn, girl, I didn't know you could draw."

"What? Ye think I can create sculptures of intricate Celtic knotwork from memory?" she questioned, amused. "Me mum taught me. She's much better than I will ever be."

Darien found that very hard to believe, considering he was staring at a rendering of Tormond Westgaard, which she _had_ drawn from memory. She'd caught everything: the variations in the blond hair, the slight downward curve of the lips that signaled confusion, the brilliant blue eyes widened in surprise. It was unfinished, still rough in spots, lacking color here and there, except for the eyes. He could tell she'd concentrated on them, as the detailing was exquisite and exacting to his untrained eye. The second, smaller picture explained why, as all it was were eyes; the cheekbones, nose, and brows only hinted at. Darien gazed from one to the other in amazement. He stepped forward and used his hands to block out the rest of the face on the larger image, and damn him if they weren't a perfect match.

Then he noticed the date on the smaller drawing: July 1990.

"You drew this a year after it happened?" he asked as he spun about to face her.

She nodded. "Took awhile to get use of me arm back."

"Oh, cause of... right. Well, it's incredible, but why bother? I mean, you got pics of him, you _saw_ him. Why draw him?" He moved to the open window and leaned back against the sill as he watched her.

"Proving me memory correct is all. There was a time even I thought I was imagining things. That 'Tor' was more sgàil than real. Now I know for sure," she told him.

"And got a nifty souvenir to boot," he reminded her, which made her chuckle. "So now what? Track him down and get your revenge?" Not quite the subject he wanted to broach, but in the right direction.

"Revenge? Who ever said I wanted revenge?" she questioned, hands going to her hips.

"Isn't that why you spent all these years looking for him? To get revenge for your brother Ian?" The touch of irritation in her eyes was something he hadn't expected.

"Nay." She unclipped the older drawing and returned it to its protective sleeve.

"Then why? Seems like a lot of effort just to get a portrait of the guy." He had hoped for a chuckle or grin, but her look was serious as she placed the picture back into the portfolio, returned to stand before the easel and put the loose pencils away.

"Justice. I want to face 'im in court, want to see 'im convicted and spend the rest of 'is life behind bars." She precisely placed each pencil point down, into some sort of padding to protect them. "I want the world to know the truth, to know _what_ 'e is." She paused, gazing at the image before her. "Killing 'im would be too easy and not nearly as satisfying."

Darien shook his head in total disagreement; he couldn't think of anything more satisfying than seeing the Swiss Miss Mother die before his eyes. "How can _justice_ be enough? How can waiting years for the case to make its way through the system _ever_ be enough?"

One of Fallon's eyebrows rose. "Vengeance is mine, is that it?" She walked away, disappearing into the kitchen.

Darien followed her and ignored that she was digging in her fridge for something. "What? I'm supposed to wait for _god_ to make things right? That'd be the only thing that'd take longer than justice," he sneered. _'Shit.' _This wasn't how this was supposed to be going. How the hell had they ended up arguing about revenge and justice?

Fallon straightened and swung the door shut hard enough to rattle the contents. "Aye. That's exactly what ye should do. I've seen, first 'and what vengeance can do to a person, to a good person, and the price is incredibly 'igh. Ye best be sure ye be willing to pay it."

Her impassioned words made little impact for he didn't hesitate with his snarled response, "Whatever it takes." He took a deep breath to calm himself; she'd done nothing but voice her opinion, based on her own experiences; he simply chose to reject the sage advice. It was his life to use or throw away as he saw fit. And he _wanted_ revenge. "Which brings me back to why I'm here."

She sighed and leaned back against the counter. "Didn't we cover this already? Your little trick..."

Darien interrupted, "I didn't come here about that."

She looked surprised. "Then what?"

Since he was not quite sure how to begin, he decided to dive in head first, figuring it'd be easiest. "You mentioned having info on Arnaud de Ferhn."

She blinked. "Aye."

"How much for it?"

The change in body language was instantaneous; the person with whom he'd been discussing the merits of justice versus revenge was replaced with the shrewd businesswoman, just like he wanted.

"More than ye 'ave," she assured him.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. The answer was no more than what he expected. "How about a trade?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't think your boss would appreciate ye stealing intel to pay me off."

Darien chuckled. "You got that right, but not what I had in mind."

"Then what?" Her words might have been questioning, but her eyes... she knew exactly what he was offering in exchange. Still, he went through the motions.

"Me. I'll work for the info."

She gazed at him thoughtfully. "Interesting. There's quite a bit of info, going back over a decade. Is there something specific you're looking for?"

"Anything. Everything." Too eager, he realized, but she didn't pounce like he feared.

"Can I assume ye'll be keepin' your day job?"

"Uh, yeah," he answered, wondering where she was going with the questions.

"I'll pay ye on a per job basis. A mix of new and old data. It'll be up to ye to sift through it and figure out what's useful." She tilted her head slightly. "Ye willing to use your trick? I'll guarantee your security."

A ha! Now he understood why she'd be willing to cut a deal with the 'Fish that made her so little initial profit. She could sell the info about the Quicksilver a few times for big chunks of money and risk the market being flooded, so to speak, or keep the secret and _use_ the ability to gain access to other information, possibly things she hadn't been able to get to previously, and make more money in the long run. That was a motive he could understand. "Why? What difference will it make?"

"Ye will pay off your debt quicker," she informed him.

"How long?" He was already cringing on the inside in preparation for the worst. _'Indentured servitude here I come. For the second time.'_

"Three years without, one with."

Oh yeah, she'd been planning for this. She hadn't even bothered to pretend to think about it. But, damn, the invisibility must be worth way more to her than he'd first thought. He didn't doubt her people would keep it a secret - they wouldn't still be working for Fallon if they were prone to spilling what they knew - so that wasn't really an issue.

It was a risk, a huge one, but... the reward. Oh man, the reward would be so worth it.

"A year works for me."

She smiled and held out her hand. "Do we 'ave a deal?"

Darien took her hand, and grasped it firmly.

"Deal."

---

_The woman who said, "Weight Watchers does not simply give you a method of losing weight. What it is, is a new way of life." also was gave us, "It's choice - not chance - that determines your destiny."_

_Least this time it was **my** choice._

_Finis_


End file.
